


Fallen Too Far

by Eclipsia (uncreativefanficwritername)



Series: Fallen Too Far [1]
Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Touch Clairegana, Body Horror, Body Image, Cannibalism, Dark, Dark Character, Dark Magic, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Evil!Claire, F/M, Half-Troll Jim, Horror, Identity Issues, Magic, Morgana - Freeform, Murphy's Law, Proceed with caution, Put Jim out of his Misery, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, There's a lot of deaths in this, This is a dark fic, Tragic Romance, Transformation, You Have Been Warned, argante!claire, dubious everything honestly, morgana!Claire, read with caution, there will be things that may disturb you, this is dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-03-30 04:16:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13942425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncreativefanficwritername/pseuds/Eclipsia
Summary: He can't bring himself to kill her. Even though Morgana and Claire have merged he still believes he can save her somehow.So he falls.





	1. Sixteen

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters. 
> 
> Big thanks to Daylighteclipsed for letting me use the Argante!Claire idea. You can find them on tumblr at http://daylighteclipsed.tumblr.com/. Check them out!
> 
> Another big thanks to my beta reader Charlie. They are awesome and helped me with my grammar and storytelling. 
> 
> Reviews and kudos are always appreciated. I hope you enjoy this new story.

* * *

 

 

 

He is sixteen when he notices it. 

 

The changes are gradual. Falling asleep in classes, not doing her homework on time, but those are to be expected when you spend your nights preparing for Gunmar and his army. Even Jim struggles to keep his school life and Trollhunter life separate. 

 

When she begins to forget things, however, he starts to worry. 

 

At first, it is only the small things, like what they had for dinner the night before, or when their next Spanish test is. Later, he starts mixing up which troll is which, or not remembering her best friends’ names. 

 

Every time she uses the Skathe-Hrün she changes, bit by bit. The black veins around her eyes take longer and longer to disappear. 

 

He should have paid more attention. 

 

Jim chalks it up to stress when her personality begins to switch from hot to cold without warning. 

 

 _Mood swings_ , Toby says,  _you know how girls are._

 

He is a foolish and naïve boy back hen; he still believes he can save everyone. 

 

It is when she murders Bagdwella with the staff and disappears that he should have given up. 

 

He doesn’t. 

 

Toby, Blinky, and AAARRRGGHH!!! try to be there for him, try to comfort him. It’s no use. The remaining Trollmarket trolls want vengeance; he just wants his girlfriend back. 

 

Still relying on the hope that he can bring her back, he leaves his friends, believing that it will only take a while before he’s back with Claire, safe and sound. How stupid of him to think so. He followed the same kind of reasoning in the Darklands and look where that led him?

 

History repeats itself as they say. He doesn’t tell his mom and friends goodbye. It is one of his greatest regrets. 

 

It takes days, weeks to find her, but when he does, he almost doesn’t recognize her. 

 

The black veins around her eyes are now visible and prominent, making her skin look translucent. Her hair is tied up in a tight bun, though a few ringlets have fallen out, framing her gorgeous face. The expression on her face is not a welcome one. 

 

Even as a monster, she is beautiful. 

 

They fight; he tries to talk to her, but she mocks hi, her words as painful as her magic. Again and again he returns to that cave, begging for her to return. It is a dance, almost—he enters her domain, she strikes at him and he avoids. Over and over, until both are left gasping for air. 

 

It is as if his words are to no avail; nothing he says reaches her. 

 

Regardless, Jim never hits her back. Claire is his girlfriend. Hope is still on his side. 

 

This is long before her first followers arrive, before he understands the truth about the girl he loves. 

 

It is only when the possessed Draal comes, knocking her to the ground, that he truly lets go. It all happens so quickly, even she is surprised at the blue troll’s sudden appearance. Seeing her there, blood running down her temple, makes something in him crack. Perhaps it is stress, perhaps it is anger—either way, he unleashes hell on his former friend, the damn that holds back his emotions springing free. 

 

The battle is intense; the longest he’s ever fought thus far. 

 

But he is the Trollhunter. He still hesitates to make the final blow. It is only when his old friend gives him no other option except death that he sinks the blade into the troll’s heart. 

 

It is traumatic. He imagines Kanjigar screaming in anguish in the back of his mind. 

 

Jim wins and loses at the same time. It is the first of many. 

 

Hot, wet tears stream down his face at the end. He vomits next to his friend’s mangled body. Draal didn’t deserve to go out like this. None of his words got to the troll. He was too far gone for Jim to save. These are the words he tells himself. 

 

They don’t stem the guilt however. It hurts like a knife to his heart. Jim has kiled one of his friends. What would Toby, AAARRRGGHH!!! and Blinky think of him now?

 

He blames Gunmar (but secretly, he blames himself). 

 

Claire calls for him meekly, looking at him with those eyes—the kind of eyes any man would get sucked into. He is at her side in seconds, searching for injuries. 

 

“Oh Jim,” she says, and he cries harder, because it’s her, it’s really her. Brown and clear, like the day he first met her. 

 

Jim strokes her cheek, “Claire.”

 

And then she’s gone, snuffed out by cold, calculating purple. 

 

“You saved me.” There is wonder in her tone. It is not Claire who is speaking. 

 

“I saved Claire,” he corrects her. 

 

He can almost hear the gears turning in her head, face contemplative. 

 

“Gunmar and I are in a disagreement of sorts,” she says. “He’ll come for me again, with more assassins next time. My children have yet to appear and I—”

 

“Give me back Claire,” he interrupts. 

 

“You dare—”

 

“Please,” he begs, voice low. “I-I love her.” 

 

The words slip out on their own accord. 

 

Her eyes widen a fraction, but that is the only reaction he receives at his declaration. 

 

“Then prove it,” she demands, pushing herself up and away, blending back into the darkness from which she came. 

 

And he tries. 

 

It is lonely—almost suffocating really. Days go by before another of Gunmar’s men comes and he is forced to kill that one as well. On the positive side, it doesn’t bother him as much as killing Draal did; it is still unpleasant and distressing to do though. His stomach curdles, however he resists throwing up.

 

Around this time her people arrive. 

 

He thinks them human until they change in front of her, bent down on one knee and pledging their loyalty in Trollspeak. Changelings. He doesn’t recognize any of them but they  _certainly_ know him. 

 

Thankfully, her followers ignore him, too focused on their tasks. It is, in some ways, a relief. He does not want to fight them too. Claire, or the person in Claire’s body—he can never be too sure—merely watches him. An improvement from before, he tells himself. 

 

Boredom grips him during the day, so he trains in the woodlands nearby, never leaving for more than a few hours’ time to find food and drink to sustain himself. 

 

Once, he leaves his phone in his backpack near the river to bath. Both are gone when he returns. He searches for them for days, weeks even. How else is he going to contact his friends and family?

 

In the end, he gives up on ever finding either again. It doesn’t matter, he reasons. Once Claire is returned to her former self they can go home. 

 

Speaking of, his girlfriend barely spares him a moment’s time to talk and usually it is only in response to his questions; it agonizes him. 

 

Jim misses home, his mom, his best friend. He misses AAARRRGGHH!!!’s gentle smiles and Blinky’s lectures. He contemplates giving up, to return home, but his desire to save her always wins out. It is in his nature to never give up on his loved ones. 

 

It is his greatest strength. 

 

And later, his worst weakness. 

 

The attacks increase in force and ferocity. He grows stronger, striking down her enemies with a flash of his blade. With every death it becomes less difficult. They were Gunmar’s men, he tells himself, bad trolls he would ultimately have to kill anyways. It is much easier to deal with the devil you know than the devil you don’t. He believes that with each swing of his sword he comes closer and closer to freeing his girlfriend. 

 

He has always been good at daydreaming. 

 

It is when she revives Angor Rot that he loses his patience. How could she? It is when he begins to doubt. 

 

The night is dark and foggy when he starts off for the journey home. She must have noticed his silence at the resurrection, because he runs into her in the forest.

 

She is ethereal, the glow of her eyes and staff matched only by the shine by his amulet. 

 

“Jim, where are you going?”

 

“Don’t you dare,” he says coldly, avoiding her gaze. “You brought him back, after all we’ve done? Angor Rot tried to kill me. He tried to kill my mom. Hell, he tried to kill all of us! And for what? Is Claire even in there anymore?”

 

Fingers weave through his hair; he startles at the sensation. It had been forever since someone touched him. 

 

“I feel so lost, so confused,” she whispers in his ear. He shudders at how close she is. “So many memories. I’m not even sure who I am anymore.”

 

“You’re Claire,” he insists, “You’re my girlfriend. You like Papa Skull and guacamole. A-and you have a light brother, and a mom and dad. Your best friends are—”

 

Her lips silence him. It is soft and hesitant, as if she would break at even the slightest of touches.

 

Jim melts into the kiss. It has been so long since she has last kissed him. His arms encircle her waist. Warmth fills his being. He has forgotten how nice hugs are. 

 

“Only you. _You_  are the only one I can’t kill,” she admits. “I have sent dozens of Trollhunters to their deaths and yet, when when I look at you, I cannot bring myself to even consider the notion. Why is that I wonder? Have Claire and I become so intertwined that her feelings now influence mine?”

 

“You...” His eyes search hers. “Who are you exactly?”

 

She tilts her heads to the side, lips pulled into a secretive smile. Her fingertips travel down to his face. “I’m known by many names.” 

 

A chill runs down his spine. The air becomes thick with what he will later associate as her magic. As of now, it reminds him of burning wood and incense.

 

“Then what would you like me to call you?” He asks.

 

The purple of her eyes lightens.

 

“Morgana,” she says after a long moment.

 

“And who are you, Morgana?”

 

“I’m many things,” she says wistfully.

 

Answers, he later learns, are never easy with Morgana.

 

He goes in a different direction. “Where’s Claire? What have you done with her?”

 

Not-Claire drums her fingers across his shoulder, staring directly into his eyes. “Your girlfriend and I are one now.”

 

“Is there any way you can just separate from her?” He asks. “I’ll do anything.”

 

“It would kill both of us.”

 

He wants to cry. His eyes even begin to water. A black-nailed finger catches one of his stray tears. She brings it to her mouth and laps at it like a feline. Disgust blossoms in his stomach but he suppresses it. It is another stark reminder that Morgana is not Claire.

 

She sighs, switching her gaze to the sky. “I simply want to protect my people. I didn’t mean to take over your girlfriend. It was an accident.”

 

He laughs darkly, “An accident or a convenience?”

 

“Do you hate me?” Morgana says, voice wavering slightly. Her hands tighten on his shoulders.

 

“I,” he swallows, looking away, “I don’t know.”

 

He wants to, but every time he looks at her he sees Claire. Her eyes, her nose, her smile—it’s all there.

 

“She loves you.”

 

The lingering hope in his chest swells.

 

“She does?”

 

“Yes, so much. I can hear her, even now.” She says, and he believes her, because what else could he do? 

 

“Tell her…tell her I love her too. That I’ll never betray her. I’m hers, forever and always.” And he means it.

 

“Then you’ll stay?” She asks, and its Claire’s voice, and he’s the happiest he’s been in weeks. “Here with me?”

 

“Where else would Romeo be than with his Juliet?” He jokes. Later on, he would curse how easily he falls, how gullible he is. He still thinks he could do it alone.

 

She emits a small laugh, light and dainty. “Thank you, _my_ Trollhunter.”

 

And then he is hers.

 

 


	2. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is seventeen when the war starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters. 
> 
> Hey! I'm back with a new chapter! Like BMR, I'll probably limit this to a once per week update because of time conflicts. Huge thanks to Charlie, DaylightEclipsed and my bae for helping me with this chapter. You guys are so awesome and wonderful and I appreciate all that you do. Once again, all credit goes to DaylightEcilpsed since she is the one who came up with the idea. And thank you for all the reviews and kudos folks! They always brighten my day. I'm glad ya'll like angst as much as I do.

* * *

 

 

 

He is seventeen when the war starts.

 

Angor Rot slices through Gunmar’s invading army like butter, destroying every soldier in his path. Opposite, Jim struggles to keep up, energy levels depleting rapidly.

 

Jim survives, barely.

 

It is the first of many battles, but he does not know that at the time. He can’t think straight. He remembers the death, countless Trolls turned to stone and smashed to pieces. At the end he is covered in dust, from his hair to his feet.

 

He should feel racked with guilt. Instead, Jim just wants to crawl back into bed and sleep.

 

In a way, he dissociates himself from all of it. There’s no blood like with humans. It’s almost as if he’s the protagonist of a video game. He tells himself that he’s doing good, that he’s protecting Claire and the rest of humanity by getting rid of all the bad Trolls. Still, his ribs are bruised and he walks with a limp. He looks better than the other guy at least.

 

 Her followers watch in interest when he walks into her war room, Angor Rot at her side. Whilst before they mocked him, now they have seen him in action. Human or not, he is a hardy fighter.

 

Angor Rot nods at him; though they hate each other, a mutual respect has formed over the months. Both are tied to the woman standing before them, though for different reasons.

 

Nature adorns every corner and crevice of the chamber. Vines decorate the ceiling in intricate shapes, changing to suit her mood. Now, they are riddled with thorns, knotted together, the once intricate design tarnished by their erratic behavior. They move like snakes, slithering against each other.

 

At the center, a large crescent slab of stone. He approaches from the front, helmet in arm.

 

“You asked for me?”

 

She looks up from the maps, blinking in surprise. “Oh, Jim, I didn’t think you would get here so quickly.”

 

He shuffles in his boots, flushing in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I can come back later if you want—”

 

“No, no, best to do this now,” she says, turning to the Troll at her side. “You may go. Report back to me after I’m done.”

 

Anger Rot nods again, leaving Morgana’s side. Jim crosses paths with him, only to be tugged back in his grip. He looks up, confused, but Angor Rot merely leans down to his height.

 

“This is your last chance,” Angor Rot states, barely above a whisper.

 

Jim looks back at Morgana, her back turned to the two while talking to one of her servants.

 

He asks, “What do you mean?”

 

“ _Leave_ , Trollhunter, and I promise not to kill you. Go home, back to your friends.”

 

“I can’t, Claire—”

 

“Claire is gone,” Angor Rot says in a matter of fact way. “You are being tricked. Give up on her.”

 

It bites, how deeply his words affect Jim; they voice his greatest fears. Instead of heeding Angor Rot’s warning however, he grows angry instead, refusing to even consider the notion. They (at least, he believes) are so close to ending the war with Gunmar. After that, he can focus on finding some sort of spell or book that can separate Claire and Morgana without killing either.

 

He knows there’s something. There has to be.

 

“No,” he answers, voice rising, “you’re wrong. I’ll get her back.”

 

“Get who back?” Morgana says, interrupting the two. “Angor Rot, I thought I told you to leave.”

 

The smell of magic (he knows it well by now) fills the room. Angor Rot says nothing, sending the Trollhunter one last look before departing, his steps echoing behind him.

 

An arm encircles his own. He revels in the touch. It is rare to receive affection from her. He has not been touched in over a month. She guides him from the war room into one of the hallways.

 

She waves her hand and immediately the area is lit with green fire. It amazes him how easily she can do magic. It reminds him of all the movies and TV shows he used to watch as a child.

 

“I hear you almost fell in battle today,” she suddenly says.

 

He looks away, eyes downcast. “Yeah. Angor Rot saved me from getting my head bashed in. Not the highlight of my day.”

 

A smile pulled at her lip. “Oh Jim, you’re so funny.”

 

“Yeah,” he says. “You know me, near death experiences are my bread and butter.”

 

“I feared for you today.” She adds, “Claire fears for you.”

 

He stops walking, turning towards her. “Really? She does?”

 

“Of course, my Trollhunter. We both do.” She tightens her grip on his arm, her breasts rubbing against him. Goose bumps ride up his arm. His breath hitches. “You’re human. You’re not like Angor Rot or my Changelings. Without your armor, you’re completely useless.”

 

Ouch. “Gee, thanks.”

 

She touches his chest, right above the amulet. “I want to protect you.”

 

“Cla—Morgana, I can protect myself.” He says. “I’ll be more careful, I promise.”

 

She shakes her head. “No, that’s not enough. Claire and I won’t be satisfied with just that. We couldn’t bear to lose you, Jim. It would kill us.”

 

A tear rolls down her cheek, surprising both of them. She wipes it away, confusion in her gaze. Hope bubbles forth. It is proof that Claire is still in there.

 

How naïve he was.

 

“What do you want me to do then?”

 

She wipes her face, recomposing herself before answering, “I’ve an Elixir. Long ago, I received it from another sorcerer, who said it would grant the wielder untold strength and abilities. It is said to bring out the inner soul of the bearer. Only those with true potential may drink of it. I couldn’t use it on myself or Angor Rot or any of my followers but…”

 

“But you want to try it on me.” He concludes, then frowns, shoulders hunched. "Morgana, maybe you should find someone else. I mean, sure, I’m the Trollhunter, but true potential?”

 

“I’ve watched you, Jim. You move like no other human I’ve ever seen.” She says.

 

But him? After all the disastrous choices he’s made lately, potential is not a word he would use to describe himself. Potential would be suited more for someone like Toby, who hasn’t murdered their friend or unleashed Gunmar on the world or got Vendel killed or abandoned his family and friends even if it is to help Claire or—he stops before he throws himself into another panic attack; they have been increasing in frequency, ever since his return from the Darklands. He breaths, in and out, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat.

 

Ten seconds pass before he finally recomposes himself. Jim confesses, “I don’t think I deserve this, Morgana.”

 

“It  could help protect you, Jim.” She insists. “That’s all I want.”

 

He tries to think of the benefits for her sake. If what she says is true, then the potion could help him end the war faster. If he is stronger, faster, better than he is now, maybe he can have a better chance at defeating Gunmar. And what if Gunmar expands his hit list from Claire to his other friends and family? There is not a day that has gone by that he does not miss them. If this could potentially help him and them, then it is probably worth the risk.

 

Still, doubt clouds his mind. There are hundreds of better warriors in Morgana’s army.

 

Jim rubs the back of his head. “I  just don’t think you have the right guy here.”

 

She pauses, then moves away. “I understand. I’m sorry I forced this on you. It’s probably too risky anyway,” she says, shoulders low and eyes tearing up again. “We can find another way.”

 

“Wait.” Jim reaches out; his fingers entwine with hers. “Are you certain about this? I don’t want you to waste your only potion.”

 

“Positive.” She says, looking him directly in the eyes.

 

Jim takes a deep breath, then nods. “Okay, let’s do this then.”

 

“You would do anything to save Claire, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Yes.” He squeezes her hand.

 

Later on, he would replay that night over and over, trying to see if he could have done anything different. He should have listened to Angor Rot.

 

She leads him down a long twisting passageway. It is different than the other hallways, less ornate, and descends far deeper into the ground. He wants to ask her where they’re going, but he wants to please her, so he stays silent. Instead, he focuses on the warmth of her hand. He misses human touch. He wonders how Toby and his mom are doing. Maybe when he defeats Gunmar and saves Claire he can return to them.

 

At the end, a large circular room opens up. Along the walls are a litany of shelves, full of dusty tombs and strangely shaped containers. He tries to read some of them, but the writing is faded and in a language he does not understand.

 

Morgana delicately presses a palm to one of the walls. Immediately, it glows beneath her hand. The floor shakes. He watches as a small column rises from the center. He follows behind Morgana, looking over her shoulder as she pulls a key from her dress. The key is black and worn, its handle broken down by age. She sinks it into a keyhole in the center and flicks it, right, left, right, until a small shelf pops out.

 

Inside, a luminescent green bottle, barely the length of his index finger and only twice as thick as his thumb. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. Even his amulet flashes, as if trying to tell him to leave.

 

He still could have backed out at this point.

 

But he doesn’t.

 

She cradles the vial within her palms, looking up at him with Claire’s brown eyes.

 

“Claire?” Jim asks. His heart flutters.

 

“Jim,” she says, lips trembling. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

 

He wraps his arms around her. It is rare to see his girlfriend; he cherishes every moment he gets with her. Her breath is hot against cheek. He pulls away, though not without placing a small kiss on her forehead.

 

“I already said I’d protect you.” He takes the potion from her hand, unscrewing the top. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

 

He gulps, looking down at the thing. It is thicker than water, meaning he can’t just chug it. Holding his nose, he snaps his head back and drinks. The taste is indescribable, neither good nor bad. It is like fire going down his throat.

 

He coughs, wiping his mouth. “Is it supposed to burn?”

 

Claire looks—no, it’s Morgana now, her eyes unreadable. “How do you feel?”

 

Warm, he thinks at first.

 

Sweat gathers at his brow as the seconds pass by, the heat increasing at a steady pace.

 

“Strange,” he finally answers.

 

A minute ticks by before the first sharp pain hits him, as if someone has taken a knife to his gut and twisted it. He doubles over, groaning. A second one, more terrible than the last, makes him collapse to his side on the floor.

 

He gasps, “Oh, god, what is this? Morgana? What’s happening? Is this supposed to happen?”

 

The heat turns from hot to scalding, traveling down his center to his limbs like wildfire. He wants to move, but finds he cannot, his body unresponsive.

 

He feels wrong, as if his skin is too taut for his body. He looks to his twitching hands—and even through the pain he knows—something is off. They are growing, lengthening, the muscles in them stretching past their limits.

 

Breathing from his nose doesn’t help. The scent of magic coats the back of his mouth, suddenly much more apparent than before. His mouth aches, the taste of pennies on his tongue. He feels a sharp stab in his jaw as a few teeth loosen and dislodge from his mouth. He spits them out and gags.

 

His ears pop and suddenly everything is loud and terrifying. The pain increases.

 

He tries to scream but his throat closes, and he is stuck silently wishing for relief. His heart is frantically trying to escape his changing ribcage. It is horrifying to hear one’s flesh rip and tear.  

 

It is something he will dream about for countless nights.

 

Blood covers his vision as something bursts forth from the confines of his skull. It is too much.

 

At some point he must have blacked out, because the next moment he opens his eyes he is staring up at Morgana, his head in her lap. Her lips are curled into a calculating smile, eyes lidded in fascination.

 

It doesn’t take him long to figure out why. He is wrong; everything is wrong.

 

He scrambles away from her touch, her betrayal. She lets him loose, brushing off her outfit before rising to her feet.

 

“What—what have you done to me?” He asks, noticing the change in his voice. It is deeper, harsher than he remembers. He shifts his jaw from left to right, unused to its new weight. His head feels heavy.

 

“I’ve only brought out what was already there,” she says. “The Elixir simply helped in that regard.”

 

“What does that even mean? What the heck is going on? Why did you do this to me?” He cries out.

 

His chest heaves; he can’t get enough air in his lungs. Nausea rolls in. Everything is too loud, too bright, too much. He grabs at his hair then jerks back, because what he touches isn’t his hair anymore. They’re hard and curved backward, one on each side. What did she mean? Why is he like this?

 

“You lied,” he accuses.

 

“I never lie, my Trollhunter.”

 

It is in the glass reflections of countless potions and vials that he sees it, the creature he’s become.

 

It is the Deep all over again, but worse. At least the monster in the Deep looked like him. This creature is more deadly, bright red markings etched into his skin. He brings a hand to them then flinches when his finger makes contact with the flesh.

 

This is real.

 

Is this what she means by true potential? Is he truly so wicked inside? He knows, ever since the Deep happened, that something is wrong with him. He’s not like Toby, or Eli, or even _Steve_. Is this to be his destiny after leaving that nightmarish pit? Is this his punishment?

 

Please, god, don’t let it be true, he hates what he sees, he hates it.

 

Fear and rage intertwine and explode.  

 

He strikes at a nearby shelf, his fist destroying the structure with ease. She says nothing, does nothing, so he does it again and again, until the entire room is a mess. He sees himself in the broken glass fragments. The _thing_ looks back at him. He wants to scream, wants to cry, but all he feels is fury, at her and at himself.

 

Morgana gently strokes his arm. He looks down (and down and down, this is not his body, it is alien and it is wrong, wrong, wrong).

 

“Shush. It’s going to be okay,” she says. “You’re safe, my Trollhunter. You’re stronger now than ever before.”

 

He doesn’t respond.


	3. Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is eighteen and his body is still wrong, wrong, wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters. 
> 
> Hey! Sorry I couldn't get this out sooner. I didn't have much time to write during my vacation overseas, but here is the next chapter! Big big thanks to DaylightEclipsed (who is super amazing and you should totally check out their tumblr if you have one) Charlie, and my bae for helping me with this. 
> 
> Reviews and kudos are appreciated. They help inspire me to write more.

 

* * *

 

 

He is eighteen and his body is still _wrong, wrong, wrong._

All five senses overwhelm him. He cannot even leave the tunnels at the beginning. It is as if everything has been thrown into vertigo. Simply walking more than a few feet is a struggle.

 

He doesn’t remember much from those first few months after the transformation, only that he rarely slept and ate, or so Morgana tells him. One would think he would be glad when his mind clears up, but he’s not.

 

Whereas before he was dissociated from battle now he is dissociated from his body. He tries to find some sort of cure to his disfigurement, but Morgana refuses to tell him and any search he puts in leads to nowhere.

 

It is incredibly frustrating.

 

She was right about one thing however—he is stronger now. Insanely so. He turns his anger towards Gunmar’s armies, slaughtering every foe he comes across. There is no more hesitation. Whenever he enters the battlefields he becomes as monstrous as he appears. Though their numbers are considerably smaller, he and Angor Rot level the playing field. It is carnage when they fight, pure and simple.

 

Angor Rot treats him differently now, less like an outsider and more like a colleague, if that makes sense. Any humans he runs into flee at the sight of him. Despite the hurt it leaves he looks on the bright side: at least they won’t be caught in the crossfire of the two armies.

 

Morgana is another story entirely. Before he became this…thing, she acted coy. It seems with the advent of his transformation, she’s become more open with her affections. She tries to touch his deformities, his horns, his strange glowing marks. He rebukes her, but it is becoming harder as time goes on. Jim’s desire for physical touch wars with his feelings of betrayal.

 

He wants to hate it, hate her for her trickery, hate himself for falling for it. There is still a sliver of hope that he can fix all this somehow, but it is becoming more and more like a dream with every passing day.

 

Her followers—the Changelings—remain consistent at least. They watch and whisper of course, but he is left alone. Good. As much as he hungers for social interaction, he knows there is always a catch. They remind him of high school; everyone in their own groups, gossiping about everything and anything that they find.

 

High school. Wow. It feels like only yesterday he was walking through the halls of Arcadia High. How he wishes he were a regular teen again. He should be applying to colleges and thinking about corny ways to ask Claire to senior prom, not _this_. His mind drifts back to what his other self said at Claire’s party so long ago, that one day he would have to decide between the mundane and the supernatural worlds. Who knew the decision to try and save his girlfriend would rip that choice away from him?

 

He can never go back, no matter how desperately he wishes he could.

 

Which leaves him as a shadow, drifting in and out of Morgana’s domain, rarely seen and even rarer heard. Ironically, outside of her, the only person he communicates with is Angor Rot, and even then, their conversations are few and sparse. The war is the only thing they can talk about. Anything more just brings pain.

 

He refuses to look in mirrors anymore. It is not him in the reflections; it is Morgana’s creation. Her Monster. His mind travels back to his time in the Deep and the distorted version of himself he fought. Even that is preferable to what he is now.

 

But. Her words repeat over and over in his mind.

 

_I’ve only brought out what was already there._

 

_I’ve watched you, Jim. You move like no other human I’ve ever seen._

 

_I never lie, my Trollhunter._

 

He is afraid to ask, yet he wants to know; is his father a Changeling? Is that why he looks like some bizarre mesh between the two species? Or is it simply Morgana’s magic? He wishes it were the later, but something in her words bothers Jim.

 

These are the kinds of thoughts he deals with on a daily basis, which is one of the reasons he sticks to the battlefields. Fighting is his release, his salvation. He doesn’t want to think anymore, because thinking brings back memories and self-loathing and he wants none of that.

 

He catches glimpses of his friends, but he always disappears before they reach him. He doesn’t want to see their surprise, their disgust, at his new horrifying body.

 

He remembers when Toby first saw him, before his transformation. The broken look of his friend’s face nearly did him in. He can still recall their conversation.

 

“I can’t change your mind, can I?” Toby asked after a long-winded argument. The sun hung high overhead. Summer was fast approaching, both boys sweating profusely.

 

Jim, still human, looked away. “She needs me, Tobes. I can’t abandon her. Not now. Claire’s still in there somewhere.”

 

“And what if she’s not? How do you know this lady isn’t pretending to be Claire, huh?”

 

He doesn’t, not really, but to face that reality terrifies him. “I know she’s still in there. I can save her, I know it.”

 

“Trollmarket needs you, Jimbo.” Toby said, eyes watering. “I need you.”

 

His friend reached out to hug him, but Jim stepped back into the shade of the forest, the edge of Morgana’s territory. A cold wind whispered through the leaves, the trees growing darker by the second. She was watching them, he realized.

 

“I’m really sorry.” He swallowed the guilt developing in his throat. “When Claire’s back, I’ll come home again. I promise.”  

 

 _A fool’s hope_ , he thinks bitterly.

 

And now look at him. He feels ashamed and angry. Ashamed that he fell for Morgana’s sweet words and angry that he could no longer return to his friends and family. Not like this.

 

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, he thinks about his mom. What is she doing right now? Has she found someplace safe? He does not know how many humans know about what is going on. Considering no bombs have been dropped however, he believes it is safe to say that most are living peacefully unaware of the two warring groups.

 

He envies them.

 

Eventually though, even he tires of fighting. Anger turns to annoyance turns to exhaustion. Weeks of blood, sweat, and dirt cover every part of his open skin. Usually he ignores it (it’s not his body, so why does it matter?) but he caves when Angor Rot flinches back at his stench, saying, “you smell worse than a Stalkling in heat. Take a damn bath.”

 

Which is why, when he returns, he heads straight for the hot springs below the surface. They are easy to find; their light sulfurous odor noticeable from miles away.

 

The cave has expanded considerably to fit the hundreds of Changelings and other trolls sworn into her service. Thankfully, with the rise in her children so too has the introduction of modern technology, namely, toilets and electricity. There is even rumor of introducing wi-fi before the summer solstice. Look at them now: modern monsters.

 

Jim extinguishes most of the lights when he enters as a precaution. It’s not as if he needs them to see anyway. Even in the darkness he catches glimpses of his glowing red eyes across the water’s surface, their image as haunting as the rest of him. Another one of her _gifts_. On will, he vanishes the eclipse armor. He gags at the smell. Damn, he really has let himself go. He strips, throwing the clothes to the side. Someone else can clean them; he doesn’t care. It is not as if they belong to him anyway, not really.

 

He misses his comfy blue jacket and jeans. Neither survived the transformation and they were his last pair. Nowadays, he simply takes whatever he can find, be it from a Changeling’s closest or an abandoned house. Whatever works.

 

The claws of his feet tap across the floor. Dipping his hand to test the water, he sighs in contentment. Just right. He places the amulet close by. Sitting down on the side, he lowers himself in, shoulders relaxing as the water loosens his muscles. He semi-swims over to the middle, where the heat source is hottest.

 

It is where she finds him.

 

Jim notices her arrival by scent first. It sticks to the top of his mouth, an infusion of magic and perfume. On instinct, he summons his amulet, holding it close against his chest. Sinking chest deep into the water, he watches, waiting for her to appear.

 

The heels of her shoes click against the staircase steps. Though the baths are dark, he can see her approach, clear as day. His pupils dilate into slits.

 

She approaches the edge of the large pool. “Room for one more?”

 

He wants to say no. He wants to tell her to leave.

 

He says nothing.

 

She undresses, starting with the buttons of her elegant collar. His breath hitches at the sight.

 

Teeth ache; the desire to sink his teeth into the nape of her neck flashing through his mind.

 

Revulsion fills him. What is he, some sort of vampire? He is human. _Human_. Even if…

 

Even if he doesn’t look like one anymore.

 

Morgana pulls down her top. Quickly, before he sees anything more, he turns away, cheeks burning. This is the first time he’s seen her like this.

 

 _But this is not Claire_ , he reminds himself. The dress she wears sinks to the ground. His ears twitch in reaction to her skin hitting the water.

 

Deep inside, in his messed-up mind, the darker part of him, the monstrous half, wants.

 

A wet hand gently strokes his back, shimmering upward to his head. He shudders when it reaches his horns. Not even he touches them—in all honestly, he is too disgusted with his appearance to touch any part of himself. It isn’t his, not really.

 

The lower part of his body begins to stir.

 

Her breasts push up against his back.

 

Perhaps this is why he is so easily manipulated.

 

“You, my dear Trollhunter, reek,” she remarks dryly. These are the most words she has spoken to him in weeks, if not months. Has it truly been so long?

 

Jim retorts, “Thank you, Morgana, I didn’t notice.”

 

Her fingers disappear to his relief. Then he finds out why; he hears her rub her hands against one of the soap bars. The dainty digits return, this time, massaging his body.

 

He wants to vomit. Heat rises in his cheeks and neck. Arousal and disgust intermix. Involuntarily, his ears lower, descending from their normal erect position.

 

“Would you let me clean you, Jim?”

 

“I’m not sure why you’re even asking when you already seem to be doing that.” He grumbles. He hates the sound of his voice. It is deep and gravelly and sounds nothing like him.

 

She snaps her middle against her thumb, magic flowing to her fingertips. A magic-infused digit traces from the tip of his horn to the base. Jim bites down on his bottom lip, claws curling. The sensation is unlike anything he’s ever felt, dragging out his more primal nature. The horns aren’t sensitive in the way skin is, but the magic in her touch makes them hot and tingly. The trollish markings on his face begin to glow, casting a red light over the water.  

 

“I’ve missed you,” she says, her other hand now traveling the expanse of his back. Her arms brush against his shoulders. “You left so suddenly. We hardly see each other now.”

 

“You know why.”

 

She cocks her head to the side, lips slightly parted. “I just wanted to protect you. Are you not strong now?”

 

He laughs without mirth, “ _I_ am a monster.”

 

Morgana grasps his right horn and tilts him back. He complies, leaning back into the water. Brown eyes stare down at him in loving fondness. His heart aches at the sight.

 

“You’re not a monster,” Claire says.

 

He wants to believe it’s her, he truly does. Bitterness is difficult to let go of however.

 

In a single motion, Claire lets down her bun, a cascade of dark hair tickling his face. It is far longer than two years ago, but then again, so is his.

 

This isn’t Claire, he tells himself, that isn’t her collarbone, that isn’t her shoulder, those aren’t her breasts—

 

His blood boils, as hot as the pool itself. He struggles to contain himself, to contain the inhuman needs developing in his body. It is a completely foreign sensation, this desire to pull her down and claim her. He hates how much his mind has changed because of her, human and troll hormones constantly in flux.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispers, stroking one of his long ears.

 

“I don’t like fake compliments, especially from you.”

 

Claire’s index explores the swirling trollish designs of his monstrous face. No, _its_ face—it is not his, with its cat-like eyes and even stranger tusks. “So perfect. You have become far more than I could have ever imagined.”

 

“Did you not hear what I just said?

 

“Do you remember when we met? It was in Gym, wasn’t it?” She asks, and damn does it shake him to his core. It is Morgana but it is Claire and where does the line begin and end?

 

“Stop it,” he begs softly, “Please.”

 

“You were so silly, do you remember that, Jim?” She leans forward, kissing his forehead. “Yet so sweet. Even then, I knew you were special. And now look at you, so strong, tall and handsome. My other children do not compare to your beauty. You’re _unique_ , one of a kind.”

 

“You’re a terrible woman.”

 

“So I’ve been told.” She replies softly.

 

“Why are you here? What do you want from me?” He excludes the ‘more’, but the subtext is there.

 

She has taken away his girlfriend, his connection to the outside world, his identity—what else is she going to take away now?

 

“Can I not admire the exquisite man you’ve become? You elude me everywhere because you think yourself some ugly little duckling which is quite to the contrary.” She whispers, “My handmaidens have quite the dirty minds, you know.”

 

“Oh, trust me, I know.” He says in disgust.

 

They may not talk to him but they do talk _about_ him plenty. It is not limited to the women either; envy and lust are in equal share from the men. None dare to approach him however, for which he is thankful.

 

“You are the perfect fusion of human and troll, Jim, exotic to both species. It is no wonder as to why; my children can at times be confused about their desires. You should hear some of the fantasies they have of you.”

 

“I’d rather not.” He says. “I’d give anything to be back in my old body. Anything. I hate this…thing you’ve made me into. It’s wrong. I’m wrong. Can’t you understand that?”

 

A hand drifts down his collar bone. “Do not compare yourself to your inferior human half. There is no comparison. You have surpassed your boundaries. That is why, My little Trollhunter,” she says with Claire’s voice and intonation, “When I say you are beautiful, it is true.”

 

“I. Hate. This.” He enunciates every word.

 

“Do you hate trolls?”

 

He shakes his head, brow furrowing in confusion. “No, of course not.”

 

“Then why do you hate your other form?”

 

“Look at me.” He gestures with his hands, their claw-tipped fingers and elaborate tattoos strange and alien to him even months after the change. “I want to be human. I…I can’t stand to look at myself anymore. What will my friends think? What will my mom think? Claire—Morgana, or whatever you want to call yourself—I want to go home.”

 

“Are you blaming me, Jim?” She asks as her nails lightly dig into his skin, causing a low growl to slip loose from him. His body is on fire, all markings now aglow.

 

“I didn’t ask for this.” He tries to accuse, but his voice is rough and he’s feeling even more inhumane than before. Red clouds his vision. He smells her magic, her desire. His control is slipping, like a rubber band pulled taught, about to snap.

 

Morgana nods, her fingers sliding further down his body. “Now, we both know that’s a lie, my Trollhunter.”

 

Her lips embrace his own and he’s gone.


	4. Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is nineteen when he sees his friends again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Finally got back to this story. School is over and I can finally focus on writing again. Big thanks to Daylighteclipsed for letting me use their idea and revising my story and Charlie who is my other beta-reader. I couldn't have done this without you guys. And thank you for all the reviews and kudos. I hope you enjoy this new chapter.

* * *

 

 

He is nineteen when he sees his friends again.

 

It is not under the greatest of circumstances.

 

They’re losing. Badly. Angor Rot lost a hand in battle, poor bastard. Jim came out far better, leaving with a long vertical gash across his eye which he knew would leave a scar. His eye is still functional at least.

 

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend as they say,” Morgana remarks as they descend the staircase to their new war room.

 

Jim nods quietly.

 

The previous was destroyed by a wave of Kuberas that Gunmar sent weeks before. Jim told her to move the base out of California (where Gunmar too resides), but the witch was insistent on keeping it here. Something about powerful interconnecting ley lines. Still, it was the closest Morgana had been assassinated thus far, which is why she was meeting with the others now.

 

Her arm snakes around his own. His breath hitches. “Tobias is quite the little mastermind, isn’t he? To have come up with this idea.”

 

“Tobes is smarter than you give him credit for. He and AAARRRGGHH!!! took down Usurna after all.”

 

He swallows back the bile forming at the back of his throat. His knees feel weak with every step. Beyond the door below, Toby and the others are waiting for them.

 

Would they miss him? Would they hate him?

 

“Ah yes, that little traitor. I was quite furious when I found out about her little betrayal. Well, good riddance.” Her other arm encircles Jim’s back, pulling him closer. “Why are you still wearing your helmet, my Trollhunter?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“Are you afraid of your little friends seeing you?” Her fingers spider-crawl up his arm. Thank god he can’t feel it in his armor, otherwise he might have shivered.

 

Jim focuses his eyes on the approaching door. “What is it you’re getting at?”

 

“I want you to take more pride in your appearance,” she says

 

“And I want you to not try killing my friends.” Jim retorts.

 

She stills her hand, a small secretive smile emerging atop her pale face. “Are you trying to make a deal with me, little Trollhunter?”

 

 _There it is_ , Jim thinks, _the real root of the meeting_. He knew Morgana wouldn’t arrange this without a plan to kill off her enemies, allies or not.

 

“And if I am?” He tests the waters.

 

“It’s going to take quite a lot more than that,” she says. “What else have you to offer?”

 

He contemplates his next words. “What else is there that you want?”

 

Wrong answer, he later learns. Never bargain with Morgana without knowing what you’re getting into.

 

Her lips curl even more. “You act so obstinate at times, disobeying my orders. Even Angor Rot doesn’t do that.”

 

Ah, she is still sore about him not killing the group of human soldiers that wandered into their territory last week. Jim raises an eyebrow. “So you want me to obey you? Don’t I do that enough already?”

 

“As long as you obey my orders for today, I won’t kill your friends.” Morgana's eyes flicker up to his helmet, her finger tapping against it. “And you don’t wear your helmet to the meeting. I like seeing your face.”

 

Jim bites down on the inner part of his cheek, wincing as one of his fangs draw blood. No matter how long he has spent in this body, it is never normal.

 

He ponders over her words. It is a terrible deal, but what other choice does he have? If it means protecting his friends and family from her wrath, then he’d do anything.

 

“Alright.” He wills the helmet to disappear. “But only for today.”

 

She rolls her neck, his marks peeking out from under her collar. The action is purposeful. His pupils flicker between round and slit at the sight.

 

She curls her index finger at him. He bends over, close enough for her to reach the top of his head.

 

Cool hands reach out to brush back his long bangs. “There’s my little Trollhunter.”

 

He doesn’t respond to her pet name.

 

“You’re so quiet.” She wraps a finger around one of his longer strands of hair and twists it, round and round, then tugs. “You weren’t quiet last night.”

 

His nostrils flare. Thoughts arise without warning—her flesh against his own, his fangs against her throat. Her soft whispering in his ear as he takes her, so much like Claire and yet not. The way she grabs his horns, drawing out growls and other sounds he never knew his body could emit. He hates how easily she gets under his skin, how inhuman she makes him feel.

 

Jim counts backwards in his head, trying to calm down. It is becoming increasingly harder to keep control. Morgana does not appear to mind. In fact, she encourages this side of him, the foreign monster that claws at his last vestiges of humanity. Sometimes, it feels like he’s the only one who experiences this. He wishes he read more about troll biology . He doesn’t remember any of his troll friends having these issues. Did it have something to do with the way Morgana made him?

 

He tries to change the subject.  “Who else came with Toby?”

 

“You’ll just have to see and find out,” she says, waving her hand at the door. It glows and opens.

 

Despite the destruction Gunmar’s trolls have brought, the room is relatively the same. A crescent table sits to one side of the room while in the middle there is an elevated platform with a throne. Jim never likes to go near it. There is something off about its make. Perhaps because it is too perfect, too symmetrical to be part of this world. Shadows stretch and dance across the floor, the only source of light coming from the torches that illuminate the area. Nevertheless, he sees them, clear as day.

 

Jim’s eyes widen.

 

It is amazing how much everyone has changed in the last three years. They stand on the other side of the crescent table, talking amongst themselves in whispers, which stop the moment he and Morgana enter.

 

He recognizes his old classmates. Steve and Eli are taller, but thinner too, with grim expressions and tight shoulders. They do not want to be here. Jim doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t want to be here either.

 

Claire’s friends Mary and Darci are also in attendance. Darci steps forward at the sight of Morgana, but Mary holds her back. Behind them, Morgana’s guards shuffle into position. The girls—no, women for they are no longer children, no one in this room is anymore—step back into the safety of the group’s circle.

 

There is no sight of Strickler, Nomura, or NotEnrique. No surprise. Changeling loyalty, Jim has learned, is never easy to discern. He hopes they are okay, wherever they are.

 

There are others in the group, humans and trolls, but he knows none of them. It is disheartening. How much has he missed? Too much, he thinks.

 

Toby’s eyes grow as big as saucers. Jim too, is stunned. It is the closest he’s seen his friend in ages. He is taller now, his childhood struggle with pudge replaced with thick muscle. Stubble lines his face, hair far shorter than Jim ever remembered it being. In his armor he appears to be the very picture of a knight. Still, his rounded face, flippy hair, and bright eyes remain the same. Time has changed Toby, but he still looks like himself, unlike Jim.

 

AAARRRGGHH!!! appears mostly the same, if a bit more tired, and Blinky—Jim’s mouth softens. The troll looks centuries older, his hair line receded even more. He is missing a limb and an eye, but that doesn’t seem to slow him down. There is a sadness in his gaze now, especially when he catches sight of Jim’s appearance. Jim looks away first.

 

And then he sees her.

 

“Mom,” he says without thinking.

 

Three years did not change his mother’s appearance. She is still as beautiful as before. She is the only underdressed person in the room, wearing the same scrubs as always, though they had clearly seen better days. She squints for a moment before her eyes go wide, tears pulling at the sides. “Jim?”

 

He’s at her side in seconds, gathering her in his arms. Whereas before he easily fit into her arms, now it is the reverse. Her arms tighten around his waist, her head tucked underneath his chin. Jim struggles not to cry. It’s mom, and she’s here and it’s as if the floodgates to his emotions are sprung open.

 

She looks up at him, adjusting her glasses, then asks, “What has she done to you, sweetheart?”

 

He glances back at Morgana, who has relocated to her throne, watching the group with an unreadable gaze.

 

He smells her magic, accustomed to its shifts and turns. She is pleased. For now, at least.

 

“It’s a long story,”  he replies. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Toby told me everything after you left.” His mom’s mouth drags down into a sharp frown. “You think I’d let him come here without me?”

 

His attention switches over to his old friend, who approaches, arms outstretched. Jim brings him into the hug. It is strange how easily they both fit in his arms. They look so fragile now.

 

“Good to see you again, Jimbo.” Toby says. “Damn you’re tall. You would have made a killing in the NBA.”

 

He chuckles and to his surprise, his voice doesn’t sound as bad as it normally does to his ears. “What in the world, Tobes. As if I could ever dribble.”

 

“True,” he says, then sighs, the humor fading from his face, now serious. “Gunmar announced himself to humanity a few days ago. It’s pure chaos out there.”

 

“I heard,” Jim nods. “What is the government doing about it?”

 

“Everything they can, but Jim, he somehow got a portal working to the Darklands. People are spotting Gumm-Gumms all over the world. It’s insane.”

 

“What?” This is news to him. Merlin’s amulet flashes at the spike in his emotions. “How long do we have then?”

 

“A couple months, a year if we’re lucky.” Toby’s lips thin. “It’s why we need your help. Only the Trollhunter can defeat Gunmar.”

 

A cool breeze tickles Jim’s face; Morgana’s magic. His facial markings light up in response. Both Toby and his mom jerk back in surprise. Jim ducks his head, hand covering them.

 

“Jim,” she gestures to her side. “Come. If we are to discuss defeating Gunmar I should like to be included. After all, I am the one you called to meet with, yes, TP?”

 

Toby clenches his teeth, moving forward, but Jim strengthens his hold, shaking his head.

 

A cold sliver of rage shifts on Jim’s face, but he smothers it. As glad as he is to see his friends and family, he knows their lives are on a razor-thin edge. Reluctantly, he releases them, walking to her side.

 

Angor Rot watches from her right, his face impassive and still. Jim settles to the left of Morgana. Her hand reaches out to lazily stroke his arm. Jim flinches at the touch but doesn’t move away. Inwardly, he tells himself that he’s doing the right thing. Anything to keep the rest of his friends and family safe. If he can’t protect Claire, at least he can protect others from her.

 

That’s what he tells himself.

 

The room is silent. He can feel the eyes of everyone on him and Morgana. It is not until later that he understands what she truly did. It was a power-move, a way of the witch to convey his allegiance—no, his servitude to her. What comes later solidifies the notion.

 

“Let us proceed.” Morgana begins. “What makes you think I want an alliance with your little group?”

 

“You wouldn’t have allowed us through the doors if you weren’t a little interested,” Toby says. “Come on, we’re not fools, witch.”

 

Jim smiles, though he hides it behind his hand. His friend is so confident now.

 

“You come into my house and address me as such? TP, I’m disappointed.”

 

Toby’s brows knit together. “Don’t call me that. Only one person can call me that, and she’s gone.”

 

“Oh,” she tilts her head to the side, “is she now?”

 

“Cl-Lady Morgana, our apologies. We meant no—”

 

She zeros in on Blinky, the purple in her pupils glowing. “Was I talking to you, Blinkous?”

 

Immediately, the magic in the air thickens. Unperceivable to humans, but all the trolls and Jim notice the shift.

 

Jim tries to interrupt. “Morgana, they mean no disrespect.”

 

Her eyes flicker towards him, as cold as the bitterest of winters. Then, like spring, her expression warms, her lips pulling upwards.  “My Trollhunter, so caring. Always seeing the best in others.”

 

Immediately, the hairs on his neck stand up.

 

“Come here, down by my side,” she says, and he does, because a promise is a promise, right?

 

She gestures for him to sit in front of her throne, his back facing her. He follows her order. Once settled, her fingers caress his hair. In one fluid movement, she pulls out the twine tie holding back the rest of his hair.  It might have been meant to be loving, it might have not, all Jim knows is that the move makes his old friends uncomfortable, if their shuffling feet and pale faces are any indication.

 

He feels her begin to braid his hair as she talks. “Toby, what is the purpose of your visit?”

 

“We…we know where Gunmar is residing.”

 

“Do you now?”

 

“Yes. We figured it out. He’s staying in the mountains, not far from Arcadia actually.”

 

“You’re certain?”

 

“Positive. We sent a troop of scouts. Only…only one came back.”

 

“Then what is it you need me for?”

 

“We need magic to get inside. It’s sealed from all sides. If we can be teleported inside—”

 

“Foolish. That’s exactly what he’d expect you to do. And here I thought you were better at avoiding traps.”

 

“What would you suggest then?”

 

“The only way to defeat Gunmar would be to goad him out. He’s far more vulnerable outside.”

 

“But how could we do that?”

 

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” She ties the twine around the end of the braid.

 

Toby frowns, then remarks, “What if we make him think we’re attacking him from inside the mountain, then surround our forces around the outside?”

 

Morgana, now finished with Jim’s braid, hums softly. Jim shakes his head, feeling the braid hit his back. It is not the first time she has played with his hair, but it is certainly the first time to have done it with an audience. “An interesting proposal, but how do we know you won’t betray us the moment the battle begins?”

 

“And how do we know you won’t do the same?” Toby counters.

 

It is a second before he realizes what is about to happen. The arrow flies through the air at utmost speed. Jim’s eyes follow its trajectory, straight towards Toby. Jim is halfway down the steps when the arrowhead pierces someone’s heart.

 

A second later, the room erupts into chaos. AAARRRGGHH!!! picks up Toby and puts him behind, the others in their group gathering around in a semicircle. He hears a sharp wail. He recognizes the voice immediately. It’s the same one that taunted him all those years ago.

 

The arrow missed its target. Steve cradles the cooling corpse, his head buried into the other’s shoulder.

 

Jim staggers forward, until he’s meters away. He hears the fading heartbeat of the fallen boy, but his lips struggle to form the words.

 

“No, no, no!” Steve screams, trying to stem the bleeding. “Don’t go. I can’t lose you too, Eli. Please, please…stay with me. Ms. Lake can heal you and you’ll be better soon. You just have to hang in there.”

 

Blood bubbles from the boy’s lips. Hand shaking, Eli strokes Steve’s cheek with the back of his hand. Steve presses his lips to it. Jim’s face pales. He shouldn’t be watching this. It is an intimate moment, one that he will replay in his mind for years to come.

 

He was never friends with either of them, but he knows they’re been with Toby and his group for a while now. He sees Toby’s face in the corner of his eye, tears of anger and frustration pouring out. His mother is held in place by Blinky, her head buried into his shoulder.

 

Jim knows Eli is gone before Steve. The scream is broken and harsh, so much so that Jim is up and moving towards the area behind the throne.

 

He’s on the assailant in a heartbeat, pushing Morgana’s guards out of the way. It is a changeling, not one of theirs’ but dressed in the same outfit as one of her soldiers. Jim rips off the shooter’s mask. The changeling beneath is male and light-skinned, with a face full of freckles. But that is not what Jim focuses on. His gazes turns upward to the assassin’s scar, the emblem embedded into his forehead.

 

Two eyes, one open and one closed. It is jagged and crude, but the symbol is clearly recognizable: Gunmar.

 

Jim picks him up by the neck. Morgana is swiftly by his side, hand on the arm not trying to squeeze the life out of this fucker, this murderer, this—

 

“Jim, don’t! What if he has information?” Toby calls out, running to his side. “We need to interrogate him first!”

 

“Kill him, my Trollhunter.” Morgana says. “He deserves it.”

 

The pent up energy rages within his throat. Jim hears someone growl.  It is not him who pulls the trigger, Jim thinks, it is Morgana.

 

His vision runs red. The changeling struggles, choking as Jim’s grip grows ever tighter. Rage consumes him. It is as if he is on the battlefield once more.

 

“Jimbo, stop it. That’s enough!” Toby tries to pull his other arm away. If Jim had still been human, it might have worked.

 

The assailant chokes, trying to pry Jim’s fingers from his neck. It surprises him that the changeling does not shift, but no matter. His fingers curl into the other’s trachea, cutting off his air supply. The monster’s head begins to turn purple as the lack of oxygen becomes critical. He feels Morgana’s soft tap against his back. Like a toothpick, he breaks the changeling’s neck. Even over Steve’s crying, the sharp snap is heard by all.

 

He drops the corpse to the floor.

 

Toby steps away slowly. His eyes are wide.

 

Their faces. Their horrified faces. He looks down at his hands. Oh god. Why did he do that? Why didn’t he listen to Toby?

 

And his mom. He’s never seen her face so ashen, her eyes tearing up. He watches Blinky pull her behind him. He has frightened both of them, shown them the monster he truly is.

 

The corpse is mangled and broken, its neck turned at an unnatural angle.

 

He did this. All of this.

 

He hears Toby whisper, “Jim…why? Why did you do that? We could of, we could of—”

 

It is all he can handle. He hurries out of the room, out of the area, away from them all.

 

His stomach curdles. He played right into her hand.

 

No, he tries to reason. He did what was right. He avenged Eli, didn’t he?

 

So why does this victory taste so vile?

 

Because he’s a monster, he thinks. He’s a monster who kills monsters.

 

The air next to him shimmers. He flinches, trying to move away, but a hand juts out, grasping his own. She emerges fully, her eyes brown and loving. There are tears in her eyes.

 

“Jim, I’m so sorry. She made me do it. I’m so sorry,” Claire says.

 

Even if it’s a lie.

 

Even if it’s a lie.

 

He accepts it all the same.

 

He collapses to his knees, arms lifeless. He’s only nineteen. Why did everything have to be so hard?

 

Her lips find his forehead. He leans in, desperate for something to keep his mind off of the horrified faces of his friends. She strokes his long ears, then his horns, and then his face. Each kiss she places feels like fire and numbs the pain in his heart.

 

“You’re a good boy, Jim.” she croons.

 

“Am I?”

 

“I’m so proud of you.”

 

And that’s when the dam breaks. It has been so long since he last cried. It is harsh, and it is ugly, but Morgana’s grip on his face never ceases.

 

She licks up every tear.

 

And he lets her.

 

Weeks pass.

 

It is after the battle which would become known as the Victory at Devil’s Pass that the news reaches him.

 

It is Angor Rot that gives him the note. All it is are coordinates, but he recognizes the place.

 

Neutral territory is hard to come by. It does not take him long to get there.

 

Arcadia.

 

Home.

 

Most of it is abandoned now, the people evacuated for more fortified areas. He walks through the barren streets, melancholy in his slow gait. Weeds have overtaken the once pristine green lawns. He smells fire but it is too far away for him to see. He passes his old school, the dentist office, the clinic, everywhere he used to visit as a teen.

 

The meeting place is intentional; the Arcadian canals. The warrior in his mind analyzes the area, taking note of the hidden on-lookers, Troll and human alike. Toby is already there when he arrives, watching the sunset with Darci. Jim smiles at the image. Darci is the first to notice his presence, the smile on her face disappearing, replaced with a cold mask. She nods to Toby and leaves. Two humans replace her, standing a few yards away from him.

 

Toby’s shoulders sag. There are bags under his eyes. Jim moves forward. He notices it is hard for Toby to look him in the eyes. When he gets a certain distance from Toby, the other takes a step back. Jim stops moving. His stomach rolls. In the corner of his eye, Blinky and AAARRRGGHH!!! stand at the top of the canal, still as stone. Their faces are full of sorrow.

 

Toby is the one who delivers it.

 

“You look like shit, Jim.” Toby says.

 

“So do you.”

 

A small brittle smile appears on his friend’s face. “Yeah.”

 

“What is it you want to tell me?” Jim asks, arms crossed. He feels exposed out here without his armor.

 

Toby’s face goes white. A chill runs down Jim’s spine.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Toby starts. “The fever, the sickness, it spread so quickly. She tried to treat everyone but—”

 

Jim’s stomach drops. No, no, no, no. “Who, Toby?”

 

Gulping, his friend utters the words he never wanted to hear. “Your mom.”

 

Toby’s companions watch on wearily. They are new, Jim notes, probably recruits from another town. There is anger in their eyes, but also pity. Even if he is a monster, he still has a mother— _had_ a mother.

 

“Mom. She got sick too.” He says, voice dead. “When did she die?”

 

“About a week ago.” Toby adds, “We buried her under the willow tree we used to play on when we were younger.”

 

“I see. Thank you for telling me, Toby.”

 

Toby grabs his arm. There is fear in his eyes, but love too. Jim wants to cry; he caused that. “Jimbo, please, come back to us. There’s still time. We’re building an army against Gunmar. We don’t need Morgana to do it. We can win. I know it.”

 

“You know I can’t do that.” He removes Toby’s hands.

 

“Damn it, Jim!” Toby yells. “Haven’t you suffered enough? You need to let her go.”

 

“I can’t.” Jim says. “Claire needs me. She has to still be in there somewhere. And if she’s really gone…Morgana will never let me leave. She’s always watching. I can feel her eyes on me, even now. If I came back, she’d kill all of you.”

 

Toby’s voice wavers, “Jim…Oh god…I never—"

 

Toby comes closer,  hesitating for a moment before finally taking Jim’s hand into his own. Unlike Morgana’s hand, which is cool and dainty, Toby’s is warm and calloused. It is much smaller than his own, another difference to add to his list.

 

“I...I believe you." Toby squeezes his hand. "If you still think Claire is in there, then I believe you. We’ll do everything we can. We’ll find something. I promise.”

 

It is an empty promise. Jim forces a smile.

 

Inwardly, he is screaming, tearing at the walls of his mind. He should have done something. He left his mom without saying goodbye, without even letting her know why and now—

 

He was just trying to help Claire. He didn’t know that it would turn into...all of this. He didn’t know. How could he?

 

After the meeting, he goes to his mother's gravesite alone. Well, alone as one can be with spies watching his every move. He stays until sunset, watching the fireflies float and dance without a care in the world. It’s a good spot for his mother’s final resting place. Toby chose well. He wants to tell her grave everything, but finds he cannot bring out the words.

 

She went out a hero, trying to cure and save everyone she could. It is more than he can say for himself.

 

He spends the rest of his nineteenth year in a stupor. He spends as much time as he can on the battlefield. Not even Angor Rot can match his ferocity. He is a beast all of his own making.

 

Dreams are even worse than reality. Sometimes it is former Trollhunters yelling at him, rage in their eyes at the outcome of his ongoing mistakes. They talk of his failures, his selfishness, his foolishness. Kanjigar stays behind, watching in silence as Jim is attacked from all sides. It is what he deserves after all.

 

Merlin is noticeably absent.

 

Other times, It is distorted memories of a life he can no longer reclaim. He is back home, sixteen and human. It is one of those rare nights that his mom is there too. Sometimes they are watching a movie or playing a card game or simply cooking together. Every time he throws himself at her, sobbing, apologizing, tucking himself under her chin like the child he used to be. She strokes his hair and murmurs soft reassurances and he sobs all the harder, because look at him? He does not deserve it. How could she stand to look at him? How could she not hate him?

 

“Oh, Jim.” She says, “It’s all right, baby. You’ll be okay.”

 

He wants to believe her.

 

 


	5. Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is twenty when he kills Gunmar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters. 
> 
> Hey, new chapter for Fallen Too Far. Sorry if it's a bit short. Trying to get this story done before the end of summer. Shoutout to Charlie for helping me with this. Also, I changed the name from Argante to Morgana, since that is the one the show seems to have decided on using for her. Hope you enjoy the chapter.

* * *

 

 

 

 

He is twenty when he kills Gunmar.

 

Finally. Three years is a brief period for a troll’s lifespan, but to Jim, it feels like a lifetime ago. So much has changed. He has changed.

 

His markings light up in reaction to the excitement coursing through his veins. It is as if his blood is on fire. Coupled with his matching eyes, he imagines he looks like quite the sight to his enemies.

 

Morgana’s Trollhunter. The Red Devil. Her left-hand man. Every battle he gains a new title.

 

Jim hopes this is the end. That Morgana will be satisfied with southern California as her new kingdom. He is tired, both physically and emotionally.

 

Later, he berates himself for even thinking about the notion. It is foolish of him—childish even— to think Morgana would stop now, but it is second nature. He wants it to be over.

 

But not yet. Not before he wipes Gunmar’s existence off the surface of the world.

 

Claws flexing, he whispers the incantation, black armor appearing once more. His gaze flickers over to Morgana, standing proud with Angor Rot to her right. None of them say anything. They have been planning for weeks. It is only with the help of Morgana’s vast network of spies that they discover the Gumm-Gumm king’s newest hideout—a mountain, not far from his hometown.

 

In the distance, Jim sees his hometown burn. The once beautiful valley is now nothing more than a fiery crater. The American Government made a last-ditch attempt to stop the two sides from warring. Unfortunately, they didn’t know that Gunmar had long moved away from that location. Both Arcadia and Trollmarket are gone now. Only ashes and irradiation remain.

 

He can never visit his mother’s grave again. He can never walk the streets of the small town. His home is gone. His school is gone.

 

James Lake Junior is gone. Only the Trollhunter remains.

 

“What is wrong, my Trollhunter?” Morgana asks. She slides a finger from his temple to his chin. Jim resists the urge to flinch. The purple in her irises is overwhelmed by a brilliant eerie gold. Her entire body shines with power. It is a bad sign. Jim can taste her fury, her magic lashing out at any living being. It clings to his skin like tar.

 

“Arcadia is gone. My home is destroyed,” Jim says.

 

“The loss is great. I never expected the humans to destroy the Heartstone as well.” She clinches her hand into a tight fist. “It has set me back considerably. At least I still have this body.”

 

Jim frowns. Years down the line, he will remember those words and what they truly meant in the grand scheme of things.

 

For now, however, he is biting at the bit, ready to tear down the monster who made his life a living hell.

 

The image before him will forever be imprinted on his mind. Two sides stand along the dipping point between the largest mountains. Troll against troll, friend and friend. The area is covered in stone men and women of all shapes and colors. Some are tiny, even smaller than NotEnrique. Others are as big as old Gatto himself, who fell early on in the war. It brought a big smile to his face when he heard about that; the volcanic troll, done in by a taco filled with explosives. Only Tobes could have pulled something like that off.

 

Though Jim has become cynical, he believes in his best friend. Whatever Jim cannot finish, Toby would.

 

Be it Morgana, be it Jim—Toby would be capable of it if it came down to it.

 

He has to be.

 

Speaking of friends, Jim scours the area for them. Once finished, he breathes a small sigh of relief. They have not arrived yet. Perhaps they are lying in wait. He hopes they are. As long as Morgana is distracted by Gunmar she will not come after Toby and the rest of his friends.

 

His shoulders relax a fraction—he doesn’t have to hold back now. 

 

Smoke rises in the distance. The fire in Arcadia is drawing closer. Below the mountain, a blazing fire rages, cutting down everything in its path. Humans have already evacuated the area, so at least he wouldn’t have to worry about them.

 

On instinct, Jim licks his chapped lips. Despite the fire, the wind is bitterly cold; the air fills with condensation. Snow paints the mountainous terrain. It would not be white for long sadly.

 

Something wet it’s his face. He looks up. Snow. Or wet soot. He pretends it is the former. For the first time in southern California, winter has come.

 

His gaze travels to the undestroyed side of the mountain. If he were not in battle, he would have loved the view. It is gorgeous, like a painting in a museum. He wishes Claire were here to see it with him.

 

He wishes for a lot of things these days.

 

The war drums sound off. It begins. Thousands of trolls fall upon each other, a maddening frenzy of lunacy. The ground shakes as they charged. Some lose their footing and are trampled to death by their compatriots. It is carnage, pure and simple.

 

Morgana runs a hand down his lower back. Jim bites back the bile developing in his throat. He can feel her magic seeping through the armor. It is hot against his skin, spreading to every molecule of his body like wildfire. The Eclipse armor begins to glow as red as his markings.

 

Jim summons his sword. He tightens his grip on the pummel, his blood singing. Singing for what, exactly, he does not know. It feels alien to the part of him that is still human, that still clings to reason and morality. But, as the red moon rises from the distance, so too does that inhuman part of him that he hates. Morgana’s powers only seem to amplify it.

 

He turns to her. She raises her staff to proceed. Like lightning, Jim sprints off the ledge and leaps down into the ensuing battle.

 

He tears into the Gumm-Gumms like tissue paper. He is on fire, both inside and out. Within minutes he is surrounded by piles of rocks. He hasn’t even broken into a sweat yet.

 

In the throes of battle, he spots banners of a new army fast approaching. His heart leaps—it’s Trollmarket.

 

No. This is bad. His stomach plummets. Gunmar and Morgana will no doubt try to take them out before long, Gunmar for the sport of it and Morgana for the future threat they pose.

 

On principle, he avoids his old friends, though not without cutting down some of their enemies. It makes him feel better about himself.  His end goal is Gunmar however. Morgana is watching from afar, casting spell after spell at the incoming forces. He cannot mess this up. Everything is riding on him to defeat the king of the Gumm-Gumms.

 

Morgana’s forces push the Gumm-Gumms back to the edge of the valley. They are winning, but only just.

 

The moment he spots the Gunmar, he makes a bee-line for him, slashing down anyone who got in his way. Using one of the Gumm-Gumms as a spring board, he flips over the trolls guarding the king, landing only a meter away.

 

He swings; Gunmar parries. The monster laughs, his single eye scanning him.

 

“I heard the reports, but to see the actual results…” He brings up his weapon to guard. “I must say, Morgana has outdone herself.”

 

Jim roars, his voice inhumane as he jabs Gunmar in the side with his knee. Gunmar’s face turns serious. Before, Jim was a hindrance, a human child with no chance at winning; now, he is on equal footing, one monster against another. The king returns the favor, smacking Jim’s leg so hard that he tumbles over.

 

“You should have left when you had they chance. I did. Eternal Night was not worth that witch’s alliance.”

 

“Claire…I won’t abandon her…I can’t abandon her.” Jim says.

 

Gunmar laughs. “You are foolish child. Your precious human no longer exists. Morgana saw to that.”

 

“You’re wrong,” Jim growls. “You’re a monster. Morgana is a saint next to you.”

 

“Am I? I wonder, what does that make you?” Gunmar mocks. “Oh, child. You truly are naïve. She will be your downfall, if she isn’t already. Take it from me. She will destroy everything you love if you’re not careful.”

 

“No, you’re wrong…Just….shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Jim roars, bringing a fury of strikes upon the king.

 

Gunmar no longer laughs. In fact, he struggles to keep pace. Though physically stronger, Jim is faster and more agile.

 

It is here Jim earns his title.

 

He knocks back each of the Gunmar’s blows. Training under Angor Rot has given him an edge. Gunmar is an old king that has not been in a true battle for hundreds of years. Jim has been fighting for his life for the last three and a half. Adrenaline and desperation fuel his attacks.

 

He will not lose.

 

He cannot lose.

 

Gunmar reacts a fraction too late, allowing Jim a small opening. Jim takes it. In one fluid movement he switches to his daggers and strikes straight into Gunmar’s remaining eye. The beast howls as Jim digs in the blade; Jim relishes the screams his mortal enemy releases.

 

The Gumm-Gumm king falls to the ground, holding his face. Jim picks up the Eclipse blade. Holding it steady, he sinks it down into Gunmar’s chest.

 

The old king wheezes. Gunmar turns his head, and even though he cannot see anymore, he reaches out with his hand, as if trying to grab something.

 

The last word on the Gumm-Gumm’s lips is his son’s name.

 

Sounds of the battle around him falls quiet. But not Jim. He is still raging against Gunmar. At first with his weapons and then with his fists. Three years of pent-up anger and anguish unload upon the body below him.

 

Eventually, Jim takes a backseat to it all, watching the Trollhunter beat Gunmar’s body into oblivion.

 

He continues to beat the dead king even after his roar turns to crying then turns to heavy breathing. Trolls do not bleed like humans do. He chips at the stone until the troll’s face is no longer recognizable.

 

It is where she finds him in the end.

 

“It is over; it is done, my Trollhunter.” Morgana places a hand on his shoulder. “Stop.”

 

He does as she commands. It is becoming easier and easier to allow someone else to control his actions; the guilt isn’t nearly as bad as when he does so himself.

 

The golden glow around Morgana has faded. Her eyes are Claire’s sad brown ones. She pulls him into a hug.

 

“You defeated him. It is over,” Claire (or Morgana, it could be both or either at this point) whispers into his ear. “You’re a good boy, Jim.”

 

Jim buries his head into her shoulder. The aches and exhaustion of the battle are soon apparent as his adrenaline wanes. “Am I?”

 

“Yes, my Trollhunter. You’re perfect, absolutely perfect,” she cooed.

 

“I’m so tired,” he mumbles. “I don’t think I can go on anymore. I want to go home…I want my mom.”

 

“Shush,” she puts two fingers to his mouth, her other hand stroking the base of his right horn. It is soothing. “You can rest soon enough.”

 

“Let go of him, Morgana!” The voice from the valley below rings through the air.

 

Jim’s eyes widen. He gets up from the ground, ignoring Morgana’s protests.

 

He spots Toby first, followed by Blinky and Aaarrrgghh. A smattering of Trollmarket denizens trail close behind. They are all injured in some manner, but it brings a smile to his face. He doesn’t know how many died, but at least the ones he still cares about are still alive.

 

Morgana squeezes his arm. The metal claws she crafted dig into his chainmail.

 

“Dispose of them, my Trollhunter,” she commands.

 

Jim is tired. Tired of Gunmar. Tired of Morgana. Hasn’t he killed enough people today?

 

“No,” he states, looking her directly in the eyes.

 

“No?” There is surprise in her tone. “They will come for me. Your Claire will die if they reach us today.”

 

“You cannot command me to kill my friends, Morgana.” He looks at her now. “ _That_ , I will not do.”

 

She stares unblinkingly into his eyes, magic crackling in the air. “Are you defying me, Jim?”

 

He stands, towering over her much smaller form. “I am loyal to my loved ones. Do not make me choose, _Claire_.”

 

Her eyes flicker brown for a moment. Her right hand twitches. Morgana grabs hold of it and glares. Jim’s brows furrow. He does not know what that means, but it is certainly something to take note of for later.

 

Finally, she relents, opening a portal with her staff. “The war is over. You have done well, my Trollhunter. I will grant your friends their lives, for now.”

 

It is not much, but it is better than nothing, he supposes. He spares another view below, Toby running towards them in a frantic sprint. The hand not holding the hammer reaches out for him.

 

Morgana tugs at his left hand.

 

He leaves through the portal.

 

 

 


	6. Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is twenty-one when he is thrown into a new war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters. 
> 
> Hey! So I finally updated this beast. Sorry this isn't a long chapter. I've been really busy and have found I can't keep up with more than one fanfic at a time. But not to worry! All the chapters are written. I will be posting another one tomorrow or Sunday as well. I WILL COMPLETE THIS FIC! 
> 
> Please enjoy.

* * *

 

 

He is twenty-one when he is thrown into a new war.

 

It is his fault. He was willfully blind to it before—the preparations, the movement of their domain into a larger, more fortified building, the increasing population of troll and changeling soldiers—they are all clues to the big picture he refused to see.

 

Morgana wants a place for her people to grow; unfortunately, that place happened to encompass most of the known world.

 

The look in his friends’ eyes when Morgana’s army takes the burnt down ruins of their old town nearly breaks him, especially Toby’s. He looks so lost, much like he did that day in the forest. Jim wants to cry.

 

Morgana forbids Jim from coming for that very reason. Instead, he watches the entire thing on television, every remaining news channel covering the destruction. He remembers touching the bright screen, wishing he could grab the people on the other side and hold them close. He does nothing, can do nothing, because as long as Morgana holds their lives above his head he is her puppet.

 

It is strange to watch one’s home burn down from a TV screen. He wants to cry but find he cannot. All his tears are dried up. For now at least.

 

He blacks out not long after and wakes up in Morgana’s war room, the entire chamber destroyed. It is the first time he has ever gone into such a rage. Even now, he shudders at the experience.

 

To say Morgana was furious would have been an understatement.

 

Being chained to the wall of her chamber for days on end was unpleasant at best and nightmare-inducing at worst.

 

It is a blessing in disguise however. It means he does not have to fight his friends. Still, he remembers the incense and smell of copper. She brings him to the brink more than once those nights.

 

He recalls asking her why she did it, three days into his sentence. She smiled so wistfully, her hands stroking his head.

 

It had almost looked like Claire. But Jim knew better now.

 

“What did you think was going to happen, my Trollhunter?” She said, braiding his hair. It was longer than he liked, nearly halfway down his back. He tried to shave it all off once, but it all grew back the next morning. Another piece of him taken from him. Hadn’t she owned enough of him? 

 

“You didn’t have to take it. You could have left Arcadia alone.”

 

“I could have, but Claire and I thought it would be better to renew it ourselves. The humans are the ones who destroyed it. Wouldn’t you like to see it restored to its former glory?”

 

Jim remembers that he looked away at that point.

 

If anything, it only made her more insistent. She tugged hard on the braid. “Wouldn’t you?”

 

“Yes,” he says through clenched teeth. “Yes, I want it back.”

 

Her fingers roamed to his back, spreading out from his shoulder blades down to his tapered waist. He had felt the amulet nearby at the time, but found he could not summon it, at least not in the chamber. While the amulet’s magic was great, it too could be blocked by other magic.

 

“Humanity is out to destroy both of us, you know.”

 

“Are they now?” Jim said, “I never would have guessed.”

 

One of her hands moved up to his face, tracing a particularly deep scar that ran from his ear to his nose. Her touch was like ice. Sometimes it was hot as well. Never simply warm however. She would never give him that satisfaction.

 

“Your old friends have already given up on you.”

 

“Good,” Jim had said. Better that they live and hate him then love him and die for it.

 

“Such a martyr,” she said. “My Trollhunter is so selfless. Such a good boy.”

 

It is something she tells him every day. As much as he detests the sorceress, it is soothing, almost like his mother’s words of affirmation when he was a small child.

 

She released him from his prison not long after that. He soon discovers why.

 

The humans reacted accordingly to her invasion, threats of mutually assured destruction should they continue their advance. It is worse than he fears.

 

Her forces continue to overtake the government’s defenses. Jim stays behind the lines for the most part. Despite human technology, trolls are faster, stronger, and more durable than anything the humans can throw at them.

 

He avoids Toby’s attempts at communication. The letters go from once a week to once a month to once every few months, until he stops receiving him.

 

Morgana’s army continues to encompass California; the humans’ weapons are a complete failure. Science means nothing to pure magic.

 

The Western Coast is overtaken first, stretching from the upper part of Mexico to most of British Columbia. Her army absorbs the remaining unpossessed Gumm-Gumms and Trollmarket traitors, her children, her Changelings, taking charge to manage them.

 

In six months since the beginning of her assault and most of North America is under her control, along with half of Europe.

 

It is how he finds Strickler. He has not seen the old Changeling in years, not since he returned to Arcadia with Nomura to help him against Gunmar.

 

Nomura is noticeably absent, but he doesn’t comment.

 

Strange, to see him in Troll form, but Morgana expects that from her people now. No more hiding in the darkness, no more sneaking around. This would be their new empire. An Empire of Monsters.

 

The older male startles at his presence (or appearance, he wasn’t so sure.). Perhaps he should have been louder in his steps.

 

“Jim,” he starts, “What a pleasant surprise.”

 

“What are you doing here, Strickler?”

 

“Our lady has accepted me back into the fold. I recently found some important information that might be of use to her.”

 

“Hn,” he responds, looking over the notes spread out over the table. It is coded. Of course. His eyes widen at one of the papers, but he doesn’t comment.

 

He knows what Strickler is doing. He only hopes the old changeling can pull it off.

 

“How goes the warfront?” Stricker tries to make conversation.

 

His lips open then close. He tried to avoid human casualties at all costs. The humans’ militaries are strong, but their weapons are no match for Morgana’s magic. He warns them, tells them when and where they will strike, that to surrender and live is better than to fight and die, but there are always those who choose to do the latter.

 

Younger Jim would have been appalled at his older self’s thinking. Human life is sacred, he would have said.

 

He used to think the same, until a human exploded himself while Jim wasn’t hearing his helmet.

 

No matter how many times he washed himself he could not get the smell of human flesh out of skin.

 

It reminded him of roasted pork.

 

It is not long after he stops eating anything with pig in it.

 

Still, despite his durability, his face received damage from the blast. Morgana’s magic could only do so much. It did not reduce her attraction to him, at least. If anything, she showered him with even more attention, kissing his scars during their baths or in bed. It seemed the more and more time passed, her attachment to him grew.

 

After that day, killing human soldiers becomes much easier. He does not attack unless they move against him first. It is self-defense, he rationalizes. Protecting oneself against harm wasn’t wrong. It is human nature.

 

Even if he is no longer human.

 

“The warfront is fine as far as I know,” Jim finally answers.

 

“Our lady has not told you?”

 

“Told me what?”

 

“The Battle for Berlin ended in a stalemate. One of your friends made sure of that.”

 

Jim smiles. Good news is rare nowadays. “Morgana must be furious.”

 

“Indeed. She is probably looking for you as we speak.”

 

“Is she now?”

 

“You do understand, the longer you stay here, the greater the chance she will find you.”

 

“It’s not like I can hide from her. No matter where I go, she’ll find me. She always does.”

 

“Have you ever tried to run away?”

 

“No.” Yes. But no matter how far he walks, she always finds him. They never speak of it. She merely opens a portal and brings him back. “It would be useless to do so.”

 

“You’ve changed, Young Atlas,” Strickler says. “What happened to the bright young Trollhunter who never gave up, even in the greatest of odds?”

 

“He’s gone,” Jim replies.

 

“You sound so certain.”

 

“Because it’s true,” Jim says, his voice gaining a high pitch. He laughs mirthlessly. Look at him. He’s a complete mess.

 

“Jim, are you alright?” A hand reaches out to touch his shoulder.

 

Immediately, Jim flinches back and growls. Strickler withdraws his hand.

 

“Don’t touch me,” Jim warns.

 

There is a sadness in the changeling’s eyes. Strickler shakes his head, saying, “Oh, young Atlas, what has she done to you?”

 

“Don’t you dare,” he begins, “Don’t you fucking dare. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be made into _this_. You think I wanted this?”

 

“But you chose, didn’t you?” Strickler asks. “You let her do this to you.”

 

“I-I didn’t—” he stutters, his well-crafted mask breaking. Damn it, why now? “Claire needed me. I had to protect her.”

 

“At the expense of your other loved ones?”

 

His shoulders hike up, breath shaky. “I thought I could save her. I really did.”

 

“Oh, Jim,” he sighs, “Sacrificing yourself for others is all well and good in theory, but in practice? Your actions have consequences.”

 

“I just wanted to help her,” he says, sinking to the floor, back against the table leg.

 

The Changeling leans down, his face ancient and tired. He looks old. His hair is completely white now, the bags around his eyes more pronounced. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Jim.”

 

“I just wanted to save her.” He whispers, “I love her.”

 

“Sometimes, the heart leads us down paths we shouldn’t cross.”

 

He is right.

 

It doesn’t make Jim feel any better though.


	7. Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is twenty-two when Angor Rot is killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters. I also don't own the Shakespeare quote I used to describe "Love and Hate." 
> 
> Hey! Another chapter in two days? Yes! Hopefully will get this all done soon enough. I just need to buckle down. I hope you like this new chapter! Big thanks to my bae for helping me with this. Also, thank you for all the reviews! I'm so glad you liked the previous chapter.
> 
> Reviews, kudos, and bookmarks are appreciated. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

 

* * *

 

 

He is twenty-two when Angor Rot is killed.

 

There is no funeral, no military parade, no mourning. He is simply there one day then gone the next. It is not the humans who kill him, but a rogue changeling. No surprise. Angor Rot had many enemies in his long life. He only learns about the news when Morgana destroys the dining hall, killing half of its occupants.

 

Angor Rot is dead.

 

Strange.

 

Jim isn’t sure how to feel about that.

 

On one hand, his former enemy is gone. The younger Jim would have been relieved at the fact. On the other, though they rarely communicated, a relationship had formed over the last few years. If there was anyone on the battlefield he trusted most to have his back, it was that asshole.

 

Some say it is Morgana who did it. That he was turning against her. Others say the human rebels are to blame. Jim does not know who did it, only that Morgana is angry that she cannot resurrect him anymore. There is nothing left.

 

So she pulls someone else back from the void.

 

He always cries when he sees Draal walk into the war-room. The troll looks tired, the once fierce look in his eyes faded. Everything about him is wrong. His skin is cracked in places, Morgana’s magic bleeding through like liquid gold. It is like one of those funhouse mirrors he saw at a carnival. He is both Draal and not Draal. Jim could relate. The longer he resides in this monstrous form the more comfortable he feels.

 

But that does not matter right now. Draal is real, in the flesh, no longer a cold stone corpse.

 

Jim is nauseous. He wants to get up and hug the troll, but his guilt holds him back. He was the one who killed Draal. Draal does not deserve this.

 

In the end, Draal is positioned as Morgana’s right hand. Unlike Anger Rot, he argues against her at first, tells her what he truly thinks. It makes Jim smile.

 

And then Draal is punished.

 

Over and over and over again.

 

Morgana makes sure it is in front of everyone. Jim tries to interfere, but he is held back by Strickler. His face twists. Watching it all unfold is almost as agonizing as the pain Draal receives at her hand.

 

At first, Draal tries to talk with him. Their first conversation out of Morgana’s hearing is one-sided, Jim largely acting as a sounding board.

 

“This is Bushigal. The longer she lives, the longer the others will suffer.”

 

He nods.

 

“She has killed thousands, if not millions. Humans and trolls suffer under her rule. You know this.”

 

He nods.

 

“Say something,” Draal growls, rounding on him. “What happened, Trollhunter? Did she take your soul as well?”

 

“Maybe,” he says, not looking at his old friend. “Who knows these days.”

 

“You still believe your human girlfriend is in there, don’t you?”

 

Jim doesn’t respond. His eyes flicker to the corner of the room. He is unsure if the darkness there is because of the light or Morgana’s magic.  It is faint, but the taste of her sorcery is here, somewhere.

 

She is always somewhere.

 

“She will continue to grow in power if you do not do anything.”

 

“Are you asking me to kill her?”

 

“You are the Trollhunter,” Draal points out. “It is your job.”

 

“I could never kill Claire, not even if Morgana…” He swallows, trying to force the words out. “Not even if Morgana is the only soul still left in Claire’s body.”

 

“So you will damn the rest of us for your selfishness?”

 

“Would you kill Kanjigar if he were possessed by Morgana?”

 

“Yes. Without a doubt,” Draal stated, not missing a beat.  “Because I know my father would have wanted it that way. He would have hated knowing the atrocities committed in his body. Committed in his name.”

 

A cold wind brushes against Jim’s skin. His markings burn in response. She is calling him. His heart begins to pound. She knows, she knows, she knows, she knows—

 

He steps away from Draal. The longer he stays the angrier she will be.

 

Draal grasps his shoulder. “You must make a choice, Trollhunter. Are you with her or against? Speak, damn you!”

 

“I’m the Trollhunter,” he responds.

 

“Then do your job,” Draal stresses. “Or else I will do it for you.”

 

He waits. He says nothing of his meeting to Morgana, though he suspects she knows.

 

She always does.

 

Draal’s words stay with him for several days. They haunt his mind. Draal speaks to him a few more times before giving up. Jim says nothing. He is too lost in thought.

 

His friend is right. He could easily kill her. Grab her neck and snap it before she let out a single word.

 

It would be a mercy.

 

Claire would have wanted it.

 

The bedroom is cold when he enters. The candles went out hours ago. The room is grandiose, the bed spacious and luxurious. A gold chandelier hands from the ceiling. He hears her breathing, soft and rhythmic. He wonders what she is dreaming of, or if she dreamed at all.

 

She turns her head. His stomach twists. It is getting harder and harder to view her as separate from Claire. Her eyes are constantly changing—brown, gold, purple, gold, brown, purple, brown, purple, gold—where Claire begins and Morgana ends are blurred and getting blurrier.

 

She looks so peaceful in her sleep. Even though his mind knows it is not Claire he is seeing, his heart flutters at her bare shoulders and tousled hair. The white of her once blue stripe has spread, covering half of her bangs now. She tries to cover it up with longer strands from the back, but the hair resists such a position. It amuses him how no matter how hard Morgana tries, she cannot tame the wild and thick hair of his girlfriend. Though her mind is the sorcerer’s, her body still resists. Or so he likes to believe.

 

It is the echoes of Claire that he sees, Jim tells himself. Nothing more than a memory of the girl he fell in love with so long ago.

 

His hands wrap around her throat.

 

Too slow. Her eyes fly open. Black veins spread from her eyes. He expects her to blast him, throw him off, destroy him once and for all—it would be an easy death. He would have an excuse. He could have redeemed himself because he had _tried_.

 

But he can never predict Morgana.

 

She smiles lovingly.

 

“Has my little Trollhunter finally decided to kill me?” She whispers.

 

His fingers itch to squeeze the life out of her. He could do it. End her then end himself.

 

It would be better for everyone.

 

“You’ve killed thousands, if not more.” Jim softly adds, “I should kill you.”

 

She reaches out. He stiffens. She drags a finger across one of the sharp corners of his armor. Blood leaks from her forefinger. She brings it to her mouth and sucks it hard.

 

He can’t breathe.

 

“Humanity has done far worse than I. Once this war is finished I will bring about the greatest age of peace this world has ever seen,” she explains in a matter-of-fact manner.

 

He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. Does she truly believe that? Is she truly that insane?

 

Jim shakes his head. “How can you talk of peace when you are slaughtering everyone who gets in your way?”

 

She brushes her hands down his arms. He shivers. “War must occur for peace to rein. Once the rest of the world understands my might, they will stop throwing themselves at my army.”

 

“Humanity will never give up defying you, Morgana. You know that.”

 

“You would be surprised what humanity would do to save its skin. Do you think I spent my time idly waiting for someone to possess?” She brings her index up to his nose, flicking it playfully, “No, my little Trollhunter. Humans and trolls alike have tried to make deals with me, have tried to control me, have tried to break their promises. But in the end, everyone knows that in the face of death, the majority would choose the other option. Servitude is far better than nothingness, after all.”

 

“Claire—” Jim chokes, turning his head. He tries again, his voice weaker. “Claire would never have wanted this.”

 

“Oh, Jim,” she wraps her arms around his torso. “I am Claire.”

 

Invisible hands dance across his skin, pressing through his armor. He shudders. Her magic infuses beneath his skin, crawling down his limbs and chest. He feels foreign fingers brush against his heart. It is alien and wrong and he can’t think straight.

 

“No, they were right,” he says, shaking his head, trying to break out of her magic. She has to be using it right? He’s afraid to ask. “All of them were. Claire’s gone, isn’t she?”

 

She pauses, looking up at him with brown eyes. “I never disappeared. I’ve always been here.”

 

Jim wants to cry. He slams his head into the wooden bed frame. The wood cracks beneath his strength. He slams it again. “Stop it. Stop pretending to be her. You’re wrong. Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

 

“But I am her and she is me,” she says, tightening her hold. Her fingers travel up his body, grasping the base of his horns.

 

“Liar,” Jim groans.

 

“Why would I lie?”

 

“You only want to manipulate me,” he bites out. “Not anymore. I’m done.”

 

“You were the one who came to me, my Trollhunter. If there is anyone who has been manipulative, it is you.”

 

His fingers begin to restrict around her throat. Just one second. That’s all he needed. “Stop trying to twist my words. It won’t work.”

 

“I remember when I first saw you. It was at my mother’s fundraiser. I remember watching you dance with your mom. I thought it was so sweet.”

 

His heart very nearly stops. Even though his mind knows it is Morgana, his ears hear Claire, his eyes see Claire, his nose smells Claire—he cannot get rid of her presence.

 

His hands loosen their hold around her neck. He places them to his ears, trying to block her words. “Don’t. Don’t say that. Stop it, Morgana.”

 

She rubs herself against his armor. He smells her desire. It is as thick her magic and just as potent.

 

“I remember our first kiss. I remember how nervous I felt, kissing you in front of everyone. You looked so handsome laying there.”

 

“Please, Claire,” he whispers. “Enough.”

 

His canines ache. Below his torso, he feels himself come to life.

 

It is disgusting. He is disgusting. He hates how much he wants her.

 

Her finger inch back up, sliding over his own. They barely cover a third of his hand, but there is power behind them, despite their small size. She pulls his hands away from his ears. The fall to his sides, his strength drained. She shapes her forefinger and thumb around the amulet attached to his chest. It thrums underneath her digits.

 

“You can’t kill me, my Trollhunter,” she says. “You are as a part of me as I am of you.”

 

Her hands begin to blaze with a fiery golden light,  black veins reappearing once more. He bites his tongue. His markings react, burning him from the inside out. He sees the reddish glow reflect off the sheets and her body. She smiles, the soft light giving it a demonic flare.

 

His claws dig into the sheets. Anything to keep his concentration. To keep himself from letting go.

 

It is in vain. His vision begins to blur as his mind grows dizzy. He can barely hold his head up.

 

He wants…he wants…

 

“Come to bed, my Trollhunter,” Claire says, pulling him further onto the mattress. She digs her nails into the amulet. He groans but doesn’t stop her.

 

The amulet sparks and buzzes, but it obeys her command; his armor vanishes. Whatever magic she used leaves him bare. Her leg buckles into his groin, teasing him. A soft rumbling escapes his chest.

 

She sets the amulet atop the bed-stand, away from his reach.

 

Her fingers burrow into his sides. His skin is warm, growing hotter with each second. He can feel his consciousness taking a backseat, watching the entire affair.

 

Like a mother, she brings his head to her breast, whispering sweet nothings.

 

“Such a good boy,” she says. “My sweet Jim. Lovely Jim.”

 

“I hate you,” he finally says.

 

“Hate me or love me, both are in my favor,” she responds. “If you love me, I’ll always be in your heart. And if you hate me, I’ll always be in your mind. You cannot escape me, my little Trollhunter.”

 

His eyes grow wet. She licks them before kissing his mouth. He tastes ash.

 

 “No tears, darling.”

 

Her tongue flicks against his right tusk.

 

When he is ready, they devour each other. He pretends they are two lovers. No Jim. No Claire. No Morgana.

 

For a moment, he almost believes it.

 

The next morning Draal is gone.

 

 


	8. Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is twenty-three on her coronation day. 
> 
> (Warning: Eating of human flesh is mentioned.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters. 
> 
>  
> 
> Hey, finished a new chapter. Now I only have to finish writing one more and I'll have most of it done for me to release. Also, just putting this out there, this chapter is dark (like the rest of the story) but if human flesh eating makes you uncomfortable then please don't read it. I've warnings in the tag, the summary, and the chapter note. Fair warning.
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely reviews and kudos! I appreciate them. Hope you like this new chapter.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He is twenty-three on her coronation day.

 

The moon sits high in the sky, casting deep shadows on the grounds of the pavilion. Comets dance amongst the stars, as if celebrating her victory. The smell of spring is in the air. People laugh and toast each other.

 

He hates it all.

 

Besides him, everyone is in rich attire; vivid purples, blues, and golds are widely in attendance. His armor starkly contrasts, hilariously out of place at such an event.

 

He lifts the glass of wine, watching the burgundy liquid twirl. It brings a feeling of somber nostalgia. After work, his mom would have a glass of wine with her meal. Not every day, but often enough.

 

This is the first time he gets to drink it himself. It is strange. He is an adult, but he doesn’t feel like one. The smell is best akin to nail polish and wood. Still, he has had far worse. He takes a sip and winces. The taste is bitter, not like the odor it produced. The aftertaste dries out his mouth. Nevertheless, he finishes it all the same.

 

His attention travels to the center of the room, their so-called stage. The ceremony is extravagant, but he expected no less from Morgana. Magic dances in the air, the lights floating above like fireflies. It would almost be pretty if he didn’t know their creator.

 

To the surprise of no one there are hundreds in attendance, though tomorrow’s news reports, depending on which side they supported, would support far different numbers. Changelings line the sides of the large group, dressed in ornate clothing, their faces obscured by masks of ebony and ivory with golden trimmings.

 

Those not guarding are shuffling between the bodies like carps up a heavy stream, carrying trays of food and drink for Morgana’s ‘guests’. Most are in human form, probably to intimidate both sides. Any secrets shared this night will no doubt be at Morgana’s desk by morning.

 

At the stage, a large throne of gold and green velvet , troll dignitaries from around the world pledge fealty to her. The remaining delegates of the human governments pledge their servitude. It disgusts him how right she was about that fact.

 

Artifacts of great beauty and awe are presented at her feet. At some point (between his fourth and fifth glass he thinks) ceremonial swords are brought out to be exchanged between parties.

 

It is long and arduous; he would take fighting tanks to this drivel.

 

He almost misses Angor Rot. His dry words would have distracted him from the ridiculousness of it all. Almost.

 

The humans and trolls look at him with fear and wonder. He hears many names: Slayer of Gunmar, the Devil of the Western Front, the Demon of Hell’s Pass. None, he notes, are his real name.

 

If he were not slowly becoming enerbriated, he would almost feel hurt. He wonders if anyone even remembers James Lake Jr. anymore. Perhaps he died in the war.

 

Jim downs the rest of his glass.

 

It would have been better if he did.

 

 “E-excuse me, Lord T-t-trollhunter, sir.” A meek voice stutters from behind him.

 

He turns, mouth drawn into a disinterested frown before looking down at one of the changeling waiters. “Yes?”

 

“I-I, ah, w-would you l-like s-s-omething t-to eat?” She presents the plate up high.

 

She is unremarkable in comparison to some of the changelings he has met. Her features are average, along with her body type. He can’t place her accent, but he suspects she is from Europe or South America. Her feet begin to shake. He notices he had yet to reply. She probably thought he was angry with her.

 

“What is it?” He inquires.

 

Before he gets an answer a black veined hand carefully plucks a piece from the tray. The changeling stumbles back a bit, their face frozen in place. The hair on his neck rises.

 

Holding the meat between her thumb and forefinger, Morgana gives Jim a bemused smile.

 

“I had the chefs make it especially for you.” She says, her other hand crawling to the small of his back. “Eat. You must be famished.”

 

His eyes narrow. “I’ve already eaten.”

 

“Liar,” she says cheekily. “You’ve been on the battlefield most of the day. Claire would be most upset if our little Trollhunter fainted.”

 

“Skipping a meal is not the worst thing to have happened to me,” he responds.

 

She tilts her head to the side, blinking, then brings up the morsel of food, taking a nibble. “See? Not poison.”

 

“I’m still not hungry,” he insists, but his stomach protests.

 

His eyes skim over the offering, the meat smothered in a reddish glaze. The smell is more enticing, sweet with a tinge of hot spice. It reminds him of the old Asian restaurant he passed every day on his way to school.

 

The thought of his days as a teen bring out an intense longing. It only makes the bit in his stomach ever heavier.

 

It shocks him that the meal is even remotely pleasing to him, though he dare not show so in front of Morgana. Ever since his transformation it has been difficult for him to enjoy human food. Cooked meats and vegetables taste like ash to his strange tongue. He sticks to metals and whatever else he can find at the tiem.

 

“So obstinate,” she chides, bringing the food near to his face. “Come. Join in the merriment. It is not everyday someone is finally acknowledged as their queen.”

 

He leans forward, almost bending over her, his eyes not leaving her own. “What is it?”

 

She whispers in his ear, “A surprise.”

 

“What will you give me if I do?” He says back.

 

Her lips curl. “To eat an hors-d’oueve? You must be joking.”

 

Jim clenches his claws, both brows high on his forehead. “I know you’re up to something, Morgana.”

 

“Why must everything I do have some sort of scheme behind it?” Morgana asks, batting her eyelashes.

 

“Because you would never be so insistent otherwise.”

 

She pulls away, eyes flashing brown. “Fine. I was trying to be nice, but I guess you don’t care.”

 

He sighs, catching her arm. “Wait.”

 

Claire (or Morgana, or both, he isn’t sure he has enough energy to care at this point) crosses her arms, head tilted up. “What do you want?”

 

“I’ll eat it, but only if I can leave the party immediately,” he requests.

 

She ruminates over her answer for a moment, then nods. “Alright. That sounds acceptable.”

 

And Morgana is back, her perfect smile once again in place. She presents the meat in her palm.

 

He should have stopped then. It would have been the better decision.

 

But he is tired.  So damn exhausted with everything and everyone. He feels like a ghost, his body moving autonomously around Morgana’s realm or into her battles. At times, there could be hours that passed before he realized how much time he forgot. A younger Jim would be horrified at his lack of awareness. Currently, he likes the small reprieves from reality. Nightmares are a walk in the park in comparison to his daily life.

 

His bed is only a few minutes away. Spending a few hours of rest seems far better than patrolling this farce of a coronation.

 

Jim crouches over, his hand encasing the back of her own. It dwarfs the small appendage. If he wanted, he could crush it. Jim blinks. The idea leaves him feeling weary. Still, he does not back down. He brings the hand to his mouth, eating the offering in one mouthful.

 

His eyes widen.

 

He did not expect this at all. How could he? It is delicious, more delicious than anything he’s had in months. Did she infuse it with magic? She must have, he thinks. Otherwise he would not like it as much.

 

Without thinking, his tongue licks up the remaining juices, savoring the taste. It is salty with a hint of fruity flavoring. Pomegranate, he thinks. Once he’s finished tasting her hand, he backs away, already regretting his decision.

 

It is a mistake that costs him. Dearly.

 

The taste does not leave his mind for days, weeks even. He tries to replicate the food, but it pales in comparison. Thus, when he arrives back and she first presents him the same meal, he takes it. It’s only a bite after all.

 

At first.

 

By the second time, it’s three, and by the third, well, it’s an entire damn plate.

 

Addiction does not come into his mind until after the fact. It makes sense. After all, how long has it been since he was happy?

 

He feels more alive than ever. Whatever magic Morgana uses in its creation makes everything so much easier. His energy levels are through the roof. His healing doubles—no, triples— in speed. It’s been so long since he’s felt this way, this exhilarated.

 

He isn’t tired anymore.  For the first time in years, he is okay.

 

And then the drops begin. The longer he goes without eating Morgana’s food, the worse he feels. He stops eating anything else. All he wants is it.

 

It is only in bed on night that he learns the truth.

 

Morgana is becoming more and more possessive, that much is certain. He doesn’t notice it at first, not until a changeling complimented him a week ago whilst warring in the Alps. His head was discovered on a pike the next morning. He can still feel the rest of their kind’s  stares, but it is subdued.

 

She notices he is distracted and acts accordingly.

 

Her fingers rack across his abs, bringing him back to the surface. He gasps as her magic burns through him. Even though she is under him she is always the one in control. Always. She could kill him in an instant, burn him from the inside out. She would make him enjoy every minute of it too.

 

She grabs his horns, pulling his face to her own. Scratches and bruises adorn her body. It bothers Jim a bit. This is Claire’s body. Even though the wounds would heal by morning, the sight of them made Jim uneasy. He has never been this rough with her before.

 

Her breath is hot against his cheek. Unlike the normally composed Morgana, this one is wild and untamed, her eyes a mixture of golds, browns, and violets, sparkling with unbridled magic. It is the only time he finds Morgana pleasant to look at, this raw part of her.

 

Hooking a finger around one of his lower tusks, she guides his mouth towards the place where her shoulder and neck meet. “Bite. Here. Make me bleed, my Trollhunter.”

 

“No,” he insists. “I—I can’t Morgana.”

 

Love-bites were one thing, but he never drew blood from Claire’s body before. Neber. It is wrong. He is better than that.

 

Despite the wrongness, however, it does not make it any less tempting.

 

He tries to get up, but finds her legs locking together around his torso. She softly strokes his face, tracing the lines of his markings, which tingle beneath her touch. His fangs ache.

 

“I’ll call a servant to bring up another plate if you do.” She sighed, fluttering her eyelashes, “Just a little nibble?”

 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he tries to reason, but already his eyes lock onto the empty plate near the bed, his mouth moving before his brain can tell him to stop.

 

“Oh, but I like being hurt, my little Trollhunter,” she says. “Especially by you.”

 

Instinct drives him. His fangs sink straight into her flesh. Too deep. Blood blossoms beneath his tongue and instantly he knows.

 

The meat has never been magical at all.

 

And the worst part is, he probably knew that all along.

 

Shame and horror claw at his insides.

 

Jim gags, spitting out everything in his mouth off to the side of the bed. He stumbles off Morgana, rushing to the bathroom. His mind is in chaos. All he can hear is white noise.

 

His hands grip the toilet so hard the porcelain cracks, and he heaves and heaves and heaves. He sees her in the corner of his eye.

 

“You bitch. You fucking bitch,” he cries, “How could you do this to me?”

 

“What’s wrong, my little Trollhunter?”

 

“The meat was never...I thought with your magic you…” he shakes his head. “I thought, I thought—”

 

She pulls his hair back from his face. “I never said it was.”

 

He shakes her off. Roaring in animalistic fury, he rounds on her, driving her into a corner. He wants to kill her. He wants to humiliate her.

 

He wants to break her.

 

Because what else did he have?

 

But she doesn’t react in the way he wants. She never does. Instead of cowering, she licks her lips. Her hair is in disarray, matching her blown out pupils. She flips her hair back, showing off her ravaged neck. Magic has healed it for the most part, but the blood is still there, still warm, still calling out for him.  

 

“You,” he starts through clenched teeth. “You made me do terrible things. You made me eat their flesh. How could you do this to me?”

 

“I never made you do anything you did not want to do,” She responds.

 

“No, don’t twist my words like that.” Jim bites out, “You tricked me. I ate people. Do you understand how horrifying that is? This is disgusting. You’ve crossed a line, Morgana.”

 

“It is natural. All higher beings eat those below them. It is the circle of life in this world.”

 

“I’m human. You made me eat one of my people, no—” He coughs, holding his mouth. Bile builds in the back of his throat. “No, more than one. How many did I eat? How many did you slaughter?”

 

Morgana runs a lazy hand up and down his heaving chest. He slaps it away. She turns her head to the side, a bored expression on her face. “You’ve killed humans before. What’s so different now?”

 

“Everything!” He growls. “You’ve made me into a monster! How can I face my—”

 

His mouth slackens. He drops to the floor like a rock, his knees banging into the tile. Even on his knees he is still taller than her. Morgana comes forward, touching her forehead against his. She strokes his hair.

 

“Oh, my little Trollhunter,” she says softly. “There’s no going back. You already knew this.”

 

“I was going to save her,” he whispers. “I was, I really was.”

 

Morgana kisses the scar over his eye. “There was never going to be a rescue, Jim. You know that. But she loves you very much. And I love you very much. Isn’t that enough?”

 

Jim closes his eyes. No tears come this time, no matter how much he wishes they did. He is too drained. Morgana has taken every part of him.

 

He is hers. It is a horrifying prospect.

 

He vows never to taste mortal flesh again. That, at least, he can control. It hurts him in the long run, but he never breaks the promise.

 

Never.

 

 

 


	9. Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is twenty-four when he is killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters. 
> 
> Hey! Back with a new chapter! Thank you for all the kudos, favorites, and reviews. You have no idea how much they mean to me. Updates might take a little longer for the next part, but we're almost done! Big thanks to Charlie for helping me with this. I hope you enjoy this deliciously evil chapter.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He is twenty-four when he is killed.

 

The humans are smarter this time. Or rather, he is more careless. He would have applauded  them for their ingenuity. Instead, however, he bleeds out, watching the battle rage on.

 

London is surprisingly beautiful during dusk. Even amongst the burning buildings and fighting armies, the growing evening sky is vibrant, like one of his mother’s paintings. He knows it will not last, for the sky is rarely ever this clear in England, but he enjoys it all the same.

 

People say death is terrifying, but outside the pain in his side, Jim feels more relaxed then he has in months. He has accepted his fate. It was bound to happen. He spends most of his time at war anyway. This is a far better fate than what he was expecting. The amulet flickers.

 

Jim closes his eyes. He is ready. No one can save him. He can finally stop fighting.

 

It’s over.

 

Or at least he hopes.

 

Jim knows, in the end, nothing is ever over with Morgana.

 

He miscalculates her arrival. She should have been in Cambodia or Argentina with her delegation, not England.

 

It is a oversight that costs him.

 

Morgana always knew how to make an entrance. She portals through an English soldier, splitting him in two. It is like something out of The Thing. Unsurprisingly, the humans are horrified, but Morgana doesn’t care. A simple snap of her finger and an entire squad falls.

 

Limbs missing, faces full of holes. It is gruesome. Even worse, the smell of the carnage makes him hungry. He tries to turn away, but he no longer has the strength.

 

When she spots him, her demeanor changes. It is the first time he sees Morgana truly cry. Or is that Claire? At this point, did it even matter? He does not remember how, but at some point, she cradles his head to her breast. His memory must be going. The blood lost must have advanced. He cannot feel the rest of his body. It is a cold numbness. Uncomfortable, but he has had worse.

 

Her crying face is almost comforting. When was the last time someone cried for him? He never thought he would die in someone’s arms, even if those arms were Morgana’s. This is far better than he deserves.

 

He stares Grim Reaper in the face and begs him to end it. To put him out of his misery.

 

Oh, if only he could be so lucky.

 

Morgana dries her tears, ushering him through a large portal with the help of her servants. There are several surgeries. Not that he remembers them. For a while, he doesn’t even remember himself. Considering the atrocities he has committed in Morgana’s name, that is more than he ever deserved.

 

Neither alive nor dead, he drifts in and out of consciousness. Time has no meaning and the room has no window, so he does not know the day or season or even year. How long has he been there? A few days? A month? More?

 

Morgana never leaves his side, her magic sustaining his life-force by a single thread. Every time she tries to latch onto his soul, it moves, an unseen force protecting it from her clutches. In between his waking moments he watches her frustrations bloom time and time again. A small part of him derives pleasure in her suffering; the rest merely pities her.

 

 _Just let me go_ , he thinks.

 

But she doesn’t.

 

She never does.

 

And, to Jim’s growing dread, she might never will.

 

Changelings dress and clean him in his near-death state. Strickler visits to inform his Lady of current events and such, picking up the slack in the vacuum she leaves behind. He watches over Jim when Morgana goes to shower or eat, but not for long. Morgana always returns.

 

Always.

 

When he wakes, truly wakes, her face is leaning over his, hair unkempt and oily. The white streak of her hair has spread, now blanketing half her head. She cannot hide it any longer. Her brown eyes are fierce and angry. Golden flicks burn beneath them.

 

“Don’t you dare leave me alone, James Lake Junior,” she demands and in his heart he knows this is the Claire side talking. At least he hopes.

 

“I’m sorry,” he apologies, and to his surprise, he actually means it. “I’ll do better.”

 

Black cracks begin pouring out from the sides of her eyes. “I know. You will.”

 

Her magic crackles in the air. He can taste its strength, an almost suffocating heaviness. This is bad. He tries to move, but he has been in bed for so long that his muscles have atrophied.

 

She takes out a vial from a hidden pocket in her clothes. The blue glowing liquid sloshes around, sparking every time it hit the wooden cap. She shakes it until it turns black.

 

He knows what she is trying to do. He turns his head. “I can do better. I can be more careful. I don’t need help. I’m fine. Don’t,” he pleads. “Don’t do this.”

 

“Oh Jim,” she sighs, nearing his face, her hair tickling the sides of it. “You know that’s not true.”

 

“Please,” he coughs. “Please.”

 

He tries to push it away, but Claire won’t let him.

 

She kisses his forehead, stroking his cheek. “Don’t worry, my little Trollhunter. I’ll take care of you.”

 

 She opens his mouth with a flick of her wrist. He swallows the contents.  

 

The taste is different this time. Less potent. The uncomfortable warmth returns, but that is the only thing. He does not burn like before. At first, he thinks it is a dud. But after a few days, it is obvious that is not the case.

 

The changes this time are more subtle. It takes him awhile to notice, but his horns grow longer and sharper, the ends darkening from a dark gray to pure black.

 

The second part does not start until a week after. He is already back to training, burning time since he is barred from the field. It annoys him, but there are far worse  situations, he supposes. Stepping into the baths after a long training session, he notices a dry bruised spot on his arm. It isn’t anything conspicuous, but something about it gives him pause. Slowly, He scratches the area, watching the skin peel off like wet paper, revealing smooth blue-gray stone beneath.

 

Jim struggles to keep his composure. He forces down the hysteria riding his thoughts, compartmentalizing his emotions. He has seen far worse in his last few years as Trollhunter. He has accepted this form he was cursed into. Besides, these charges are not nearly as painful as his first one was.

 

Not a day later and the bruised spot expands. At first it’s just his arm, but then it starts to show up on his face and hands and soon enough, his back and stomach. His once pale skin cracks like paper then crumbles away like sand, leaving behind the same clay-like flesh.

 

The entire process takes three agonizing weeks of itching and rubbing himself against every rough surface he could find. His red markings glow starkly against his new flesh. He never thought he would actually miss his previous form, the one Morgana gave him so long ago, but he does. He wishes that was the end of it, but no.

 

The growing pains are not as terrible as his first, but gaining several inches overnight was not fun. Though he wore few outfits, preferring the comfort of his armor, he had to replace several pants and shirts. Not all, but enough to be a nuisance. It is hard enough finding normal clothes previously.

 

Additionally, having to change his routine because of the newly added height frustrates him, as it means he would have to consume more calories. He gets hungry more often as well. _Should have gone into the NBA like Toby said,_ he thinks.

 

The physical changes don’t compare to the others though; he is stronger and faster, making him much harder to kill now. Bullets do nothing. He is unbreakable.

 

Her weapon is perfected.

 

Jim would have cried. He wants to cry. Nothing comes out however. He is dried up.

 

Life goes on.

 

Not long after he settles into his ‘improved’ body, he is assigned to Morgana’s newest mission.

 

The tomb is guarded by sorcery. What a surprise. Magic is useless there. Morgana and her entourage follow him as he descends. At first, he wonders why she put him in front, until he gets the second level of the cavern. It is as if an unseen force is pulling him in. It is rather soothing, almost like Morgana’s magic. Different, but similar.

 

Jim does not know much about the amulet’s creator, only what Blinky has shared and of what Morgana has told him. He didn’t ask very much. Whenever he did, she would grow cold, kicking him out of her room for a few days before bringing him back. She always seems to cradle her right hand at those times.  

 

Jim almost sympathizes with her. If Merlin did not exist, his mother would still be alive. He would still be human. In a way, it’s Merlin’s fault any of this happened. Or so he tells himself.

 

His sympathy for her only goes so far.

 

It is on a cold stone slab that they find him. Cobwebs cover his body. Jim is surprised the roof did not cave in on the old wizard. It would be a preferable death to the one Jim will soon give him.

 

He approaches the body, summoning one of his blades. Morgana is behind him, her hand on his back, guiding (pushing) him forwards.

 

This is it. Jim wonders what will happen when he kills the wizard. Part of him hopes the amulet will die with Merlin. Then Jim would be useless to Morgana and she would dispose of him. She disposes her other subordinates. Why not him?

 

Her other hand comes around and grasps the one holding the dagger.

 

She taps his chest, motioning him to look at her. When he does, it is not Claire that he sees, but Morgana. He nearly drops the blade to the ground, for what he sees is his worst nightmare  confirmed.

 

Her eyes are locked on him and only him. It is not the kind of gaze he wants, and he has seen them all—her mortal enemies, her servants, her soldiers—this one is distinctly different. There is a softness there, a warmth that Jim has pretended not to notice for quite some time.

 

He should have done something.

 

It is too late now.

 

Morgana loves him. Or, loves him as much as she is able. It is a terrifying prospect. He wonders how much Claire has influenced that aspect of her. Did Morgana love him on her own volition, or is it because she and Claire have merged together? He doesn’t want to find out.

 

He wants to go home and sleep.

 

“I’ve waited so long to do this,” she says. “He took everything from me and trapped me away for hundreds of years. It was so lonely. I thought I would go insane. I think I did too, for a time.”

 

“What will you do, once Merlin is gone?” Jim asks, dreading the answer.

 

The fingers on his back travel downwards. He arches in reaction.

 

“I’ve so many ideas. It’s hard to choose, really,” she replies. “With Merlin gone, I can finally _breathe_. No more looking behind my back for the old fool. It is almost poetic, to have him die by his own creation. By the symbol he so revered and I so despised.”

 

“Why me?” He  asks. “Why didn’t you kill me, Morgana?”

 

She gently pulls his head down to her level. He obeys. Her kiss is soft. He barely perceives it.

 

“Oh, Jim,” she whispers, her hands massaging his ears in lazy circles. They rise in response to the sensation. “I could never kill you. You and I have much to do once Merlin is gone.”

 

Jim bites down on his lower lip. “But the amulet—when Merlin is gone, I won’t be the Trollhunter anymore, right? What use could you have of me?”

 

She laughs. It is sweet, contrasting her normal calculated one. “Sweet little Trollhunter. Has my devotion not proven to you how far I will go? Why do you think I saved you time and time again when I could have easily killed you? You are mine, Jim, forever and always.”

 

He wants to look away. Her gaze is like madness itself. It is exhausting.

 

He wants to go home and sleep.

 

What she says next chills him to the bone.

 

“After all, a queen cannot be a true queen without a consort.”

 

Jim is silent, too disturbed to speak. Morgana continues to guide his dagger. He lets her. It is she who is in control now. It is easier to let her do it.

 

She pulls his arm up high then jabs it downward into the wizard’s heart.

 

Jim jumps back when the wizard awakes, eyes immediately locking onto him.

 

Merlin’s  breathing rattles and rasps. There is fear and confusion in his eyes. “You,” is all he says before breaking out into a fit of bloody coughs. He is drowning on his own blood. Jim looks away from the dying wizard.

 

He wants to go home and sleep.

 

Morgana thinks it is in reference to her. She captures the wizard by the chin, bringing his attention to her face. “Yes. _Me_. You locked me away, intent on sweeping me under the rug like one of your failures. Did you think you could get away with it? How dare you. I…I spent _centuries_ in that cold and dark place, unable to move, unable to sleep. It was torture. You sentenced me to hell.” She smiled. “But now, now it’s my turn.”

 

Slowly, he begins to walk backward. He has seen enough.

 

She twists Jim’s knife deeper. Merlin groans. “I spent centuries planning your demise. First, I planned on using Gunmar, but when those plans fell through, another opportunity presented itself: your Trollhunter. I must hand it to you, you have chosen wisely, or unwisely such as the case is for you. Jim, come. Come here now.”

 

She grabs his hand and drags him back to the dying body. Jim feels empty. Watching the old wizard die is unpleasant. He knows he should feel something for murdering the wizard in cold blood, but there is nothing left in him that cares. All he wants to do right now is go home and sleep.

 

“You may have crafted the amulet out of me but I have crafted the Trollhunter into your doom. Isn’t he the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen? The perfect balance of both human and troll? You mocked me for my changelings, told me it was the greatest abomination of magic you’d ever seen. _Jealousy_ , you were jealous, weren’t you? That I came so close to crafting the magic you were trying to conceal. But I succeeded. I figured out how to make your little potion myself. In fact, I perfected it. And now look at him. Isn’t he perfect? All the strengths and none of the weaknesses. I remember you had quite the conniption when your first experiments didn’t work out. How you let the sun burn them alive. But he doesn’t have that weakness. I made sure of it.”

 

“Morgana,” Jim says.

 

“It was so lonely in that place. No one to hold you, no one to cherish. But that’s all over now. I’ve won. You’ve lost.” She squeezes Jim’s hand. “Your Trollhunter is mine. How does that feel?”

 

“Morgana,” he says in louder voice. “He’s dead.”

 

She blinks, turning her attention back to him. “What?”

 

“His heart stopped beating a while ago,” he points out.

 

She pauses for a moment, then sighs, moving away from the cooling corpse. “Oh poo, I was hoping he would stay alive for a little longer.”

 

Her hand grazes over the front of his amulet. It lights up at her touch. Jim sighs.

 

Part of him had hoped that by killing Merlin he would be released from his role and given back his human body.

 

It is a nice dream.

 

The amulet continues to glow. Be it by Morgana’s magic or a curse from Merlin, he will never know.

 

And he is still a monster, now both outside and inside.

 

He makes his decision.

 

 

 


	10. Twenty-five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s twenty-five and he finally feels hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Finally got around to revising this chapter. Everything is written, I just gotta flesh out and revise the other two chapters. Next chapter will hopefully be out next week or the week after. Hopefully will have this finished by late November or early December at the latest. Already planning other fanfics out. Will keep you updated when I've got more info. 
> 
> Big thanks to those on the Trollhunters Cry Corner Discord for helping me with this chapter and giving some lovely feedback. Also big thanks to Charlie and memequeensupreme for looking over my terrible grammar. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter! :D

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He’s twenty-five and he finally feels hope.

 

The curtains rise. The stage is set. But Jim still waits for his cue. His sign. Anything to take him from this nightmare he has helped create.

 

Like all of his previous birthdays, his twenty-fifth passes with little fanfare. Halfway through the year, he remembers how soon he will be approaching his first decade of Trollhunting.

 

This is part of what moves him to act, but it takes him some time to figure out how.

 

His greatest enemy is Morgana. She is different after Merlin’s death. She no longer looks behind her back for enemies. Perhaps it's because she thinks no one can harm her anymore.

 

It is that kind of arrogance that costs her.

 

But for now, she is calm, euphoric even. She has taken to dressing him up at her meetings. Elaborate silks, detailed crowns that framed his horns, leathers that twist and deform his shape into a more androgynous look—it is as if he is her doll. Perhaps he is.

 

Her Trollhunter, her lover, her puppet, her doll—he is the sorcerer’s, body and mind.

 

But not his spirit. That, she could never take away from him.

 

Every morning, she wakes him. One in particular he remembers quite vividly, the week after Merlin’s death. It is when this dress-up game began after all.

 

He wakes to her fingers roaming the expanse of his chest, her touch both freezing and scalding against his flesh. She was using magic, he remembers, if the glowing marks are any indication. It is how he knows her moods, which are now almost second nature to him. She is playful. Jim relaxes; he can deal with playful.

 

Her index lazily circles around the amulet embedded in his chest. He knows not the reason, only that after he depowered that day, it would not budge. He assumed it was Merlin’s last curse, fusing the amulet to his skin, a permanent reminder of his sins. Morgana didn’t care however. In fact, she seemed to delight in having the device so close to his heart.

 

_It’s like I have your heart in my hands_ , she said, before devouring his lips.

 

The subject of clothing comes after their breakfast is brought up by one of her handmaidens. He gets up, only to be stopped her agile arms.  

 

“You look so handsome,” she purrs, and Jim struggles not to flinch at the sound. “What are you going to wear today, my little Trollhunter?”

 

Her little Trollhunter. She no longer uses his real name; something he has noticed more and more throughout the years. It is as if Jim as disappeared, leaving only his body behind. The truth makes him wish he could cry again.

 

The Trollhunter is a shadow of his former self.

 

His chest aches; the fact hurts.

 

“What would you like me to wear?” He remembers asking her.

 

Her digits travel upwards, into his hair. He hears her hum as she separates the locks into several parts, her dexterous fingers soon braiding the long mane. It is something she has done for a while, but for once, she doesn’t use sex to coax him into it.

 

Her glowing eyes peak over his shoulder. “You’re giving me that choice? No bargains? No deals?”

 

He stays silent. She has taken everything else from him. What he wears didn’t really matter anyway.

 

She takes his silence as affirmation. She waves a hand through the air, the clothing emerging from the shadowy corner of their room. Another flick and she floats it over to their bed.

 

The first outfit she chooses was by far the worst. The armor is almost a mockery of his own; a gaudy golden hue in place of his normal black whilst a sickly green replaces the red. The cape is a dark purple, made to clasp underneath the pauldrons, which jutted out sharply and fully. The graves are not much better.

 

The crown is the worst. Later, he regrets ever giving her such leeway. Out of all the other outfits she would later make him adorn, this one was the most difficult.

 

At his initial viewing, the metal appears to be two separate pieces. The first is a golden v-shaped circlet, designed to go around his forehead and into his hair. The second contrasts the other in its complex design, large clasp structure made to look like elegant detailed roses. Once Morgana places it to his head did he learn how wrong that assumption was.

 

He bites back a curse as the metal twists around his head, not unlike the ceiling vines in her war chambers. The rose pattern morphs, thorns emerging from the delicate flowers. They trek up his horns, vein-like patterns emerging. It is tight, as if Morgana herself has her hands around his head. He hisses when they pierce his earlobes. He smells his blood, the rich and coppery scent filling his mind. Morgana watches in earnest. His gaze travels to the large mirror behind them. By the time the crown settles, Jim finds himself supporting a second pair of horns, shaped in a crown formation, as though he were some demonic prince of hell itself.

 

Immediately, he knows he could not take them off without Morgana’s help. It is the most helpless he had felt in years.

 

Still, he refuses to show his inner-turmoil. Morgana pulls his face down to her height, licking at the blood. The last thing he remembered that day are his fangs at her neck.

 

It soon becomes a routine. She would try and test him once in a while, tight leathers he could barely move in, that one time she merely dressed him in pants—but Morgana is a sorceress in love with herself and her possessions. Whatever she wears, he matches.

 

He understands, politically, what she is doing. He remembers her words in Merlins’ Tomb. But at the end of the day, he has better things to focus his energy on.

 

The better mood she is in, the less time she makes him stay with her at ceremonies and council meetings and the more time he gets to sleep.

 

Sleep. He sleeps now more than ever before. Part of him reasons that his new body expends energy faster than before and has yet to adjust. But that is a falsehood he tells himself.

 

Sleep is an escape. Sleep is relief. Sleep is a respite from the reality of his situation.

 

More and more she involves him in the affairs of her court. Nothing that gives Jim any true power, oh no, she knows better than to do that. Her Generals like to joke about that little issue. _The Queen’s dog_ , they mention amongst each other, as if he doesn’t hear them. Lapdog and guard dog, all rolled into one pretty package. He doesn’t comment. There are more important things at stake. It is here that he hears about the uprisings and underground movement.

 

It is here he begins to plan.

 

He starts with planning excursions, claiming they helped calm his mind. Morgana follows him at first, but once she figures out he’s not going anywhere important, she leaves him to it. She knows she has him in her hands. Just as he predicts, she writes off his little field trips as whimsical vacations from the chaotic nature of her fortress. She believes his words, because what allies did he have, after all he’s done for her?

 

His next step is more complicated.

 

He studies the rebellion and its members. Every battle, every fight, he makes sure to memorize them all. Morgana is, of course, delighted at this change of heart. Thankfully, she doesn’t ask, merely pampers him with more affection and sweet words.

 

He knows better now than to believe any of it.

 

His research produces a kernel of discovery. It is genius in retrospect. But he expects nothing less of their leader.

 

The base is easy enough to find, but hard to get into. Mines littered the battleground. Not even the bravest of souls would enter this dark hellish landscape. He’d been told it was beautiful once, a lush redwood forest with trees that seemed to reach for miles. But war spares no one.  

 

Being a hybrid has some advantages. While no expert, he has tracked more than enough of his enemies to pick up human disturbances.

 

He probably should have contacted them beforehand, or at least set up a meeting. But his impatience wins out.

 

So he sits. Right in the middle of the empty field.

 

It isn’t the smartest idea he’s had. But it does the trick, to a point.

 

A group of soldiers approach an hour later, guns at the ready. He does nothing. One tries to punch him, but screams in pain at the action, his wrist broken. Jim struggles not to laugh. Hey, he’s gone through a lot these past couple of years, okay? It’s been awhile since someone tried to punch him.

 

_Why are you here_ , they ask.

 

He stays silent.

 

_What does Morgana want_ , they probe, following the question with more interrogation measures.

 

_How did the Trollhunter find us?_

 

_Good old fashioned detective work_ , he thought.

 

_Are you here to kill us?_

 

They wouldn’t be standing here if he was.

 

_Fuck you, you sonaofbitch._

How unoriginal. Not the first time he’s heard that.

 

_I hope the boss let’s us blow your fucking head to pieces then piss all over your remains, you scumbag._

 

Now that, that was creative. He almost giggled at that threat.

 

He stays silent in the car to the base (blindfolded of course). He stays silent in the cell they place him in too.

 

The moment he enters the building he knows Morgana cannot find him. It is as if all the air in his lungs is sucked out, leaving him empty, weaker almost. He doesn’t know how to describe it. There is no faint taste of magic, only a soft vibration, one that echoes through the entire complex, he suspects.

 

His eyes widen. They’re using technology to counter her. A burst of pride erupts. Humanity isn’t completely lost yet. There’s still hope.

 

Damn does it feel good to finally breath without her eye on him. On any normal day she would likely freak out and start tearing through the world for him, but the situation at the capital of her kingdom has been strenuous at best, and downright nasty at worst. Her war council and administrative council have been butting heads over their next plan of action. Morgana would be up to her eyeballs in work before she notices his little trip goes longer than he said.

 

He waits. It takes a while, whatever they’re doing, so he savors the alone time while he can.

 

How does the world fare outside of Morgana’s territory? It has been so long since he has seen human civilization in the lands past the sorcerer’s reach. Most of the larger cities are ruins now. This is his fault, when it came down to it.

 

There is no going back for him.

 

But perhaps, perhaps someone can make a difference for the rest of the world’s future.

 

Someone besides him.

 

His ears twitch at the sound of familiar footsteps outside his cell. Three or four people, he thinks. He leans forward. It is soft, but he can pick up their voices just enough to make sense of their conversation.

 

“You say you captured him?” A male’s voice asks. It is deeper than he remembers. Rougher.

 

Jim stops breathing for a moment. His heart thumps wildly against his chest.

 

“More like he walked right up to us and gave himself up,” one of the soldiers who brought him in responds.

 

“Why?” A woman remarks in a frustrated tone. “Why now? Why in the world would someone like the Trollhunter do such a thing?”

 

The original man lets out a soft sigh. “Because it’s Jim.”

 

“He’s the Trollhunter. He’s Morgana’s right hand. If we take him out, then we can turn the tide,” the woman argues.

 

“Or you could set Morgana off the deep end and send the rest of humanity into extinction. This isn’t a win-lose scenario. You don’t know anything about him, not like I do.”

 

“You’re too soft, sir.”

 

“No,” the original voice said. “Just practical.”

 

Jim keeps still, even as the cell door opens.

 

The door shuts a second later. Only a single pair of footsteps remains. He listens as the person approaches, pausing midway for a few moments, before drawing closer. Jim forces his body to relax. No matter how anxious he is, he does not want to scare the other.

 

Familiar hands remove his blindfold. He squints, eyes adjusting to the bright lights. His gaze travels to the black window to his right. Even though he cannot see through it, he knows others are watching, waiting for him to do something.

 

Toby cocks his head to the side, a somber but investigative look on his face.

 

“Why are you here, Jim?” He inquires.

 

Jim gives him a sad smile. “Why do you think?”

 

The tension in the room grows thicker, though not by Jim’s doing. Toby’s shoulders rise.

 

He knows enough about his old friend to read his body language. Toby is cautious around him. Jim gets it. It stings, but he understands. He can’t be upset at his friend’s mistrust.

 

The years have not been kind to either of them. At least Jim still has two eyes though. He accidently lets out a giggle.

 

“What’s so funny?”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, trying not to sound as hysterical as he felt. It’s been years since he’s seen his old friend. “It’s just…with that eyepatch…Pirate King Tobias.”

 

The kiddie pool pirates. Sipping on lemonade and eating Cheetos in the small pool Toby’s Nana got at a garage sale. They had so many adventures in that small plastic thing.

 

It is a good memory. One of the few he has now.

 

Toby tried to keep a straight face, but a smile at the edges of his lips threatens to emerge. “You remember that?”

 

Jim’s laughter died. “I remember lots of things,” he admits.

 

Claire’s descent into Morgana’s hands, his horrific transformation ( _wrong, wrong, wrong, this will never be right, his hands are too big and his body too tall to ever truly be his_ ) , the news of his mother’s death, the fall of Arcadia Oaks, Merlin’s death—he remembers every single moment.

 

His conscience wouldn’t allow him otherwise.

 

Toby must have noticed his change in demeanor. He scratches at the five o’clock shadow, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

 

This is no time for memories after all.

 

He is here for a reason.

 

“Don’t play games with me.” Toby says in a steady, authoritative tone. “What’s your plan?”

 

“I’m here for you.” It is a simple statement, but it is the truth, of sorts.

 

Toby’s hand inches closer to the hammer at his side. “Did Morgana send you here to kill me? Is that it?”

 

“No,” Jim confesses. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”

 

Toby’s single eye widens. He gives Jim a once-over, uncertainty in his gaze.

 

“It’s been years since we’ve spoken. Why now?” Toby whispers, “And why me?”

 

“Because you’re going to end it,” Jim says, and wow, it feels amazing to finally get that off his chest.

 

He had been waiting forever to say it. But to actually put forth the words is more than relieving. It is euphoric.

 

“What?”

 

“Tobes,” Jim begins. “I’m so tired. I thought I could get Claire back. I truly did. But everyone was right.” He pauses. “She’s gone. All that’s left is Claire’s body. I was wrong and it cost me everything.”

 

His mother, his friends, his life—Morgana took everything from him, and he allowed it, every step of the way. She used his love and personal loyalty for Claire against him.

 

And now he’s here.

 

It’s time.

 

“Jim, I—”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Jim interrupts. And he means it. He knows words mean nothing at this point, not after everything he’s done, but the relief he feels to finally say it outweigh his fears of rejection. He knows it is selfish to do this, but what other choice did he have left? “I know that doesn’t mean much, after all the things I’ve done, but I wanted you to know that. I hurt so many people. I should have listened, but I was too stubborn. I thought I could save her. But there’s nothing left to save.”

 

“What are you…” Toby pauses. His lips open slightly as his face pales. “What are you really doing here?”

 

Jim’s eyes flicker towards the door before locking on Toby’s hammer. His friend notices.

 

“I already told you,” Jim says.

 

Toby visibly swallows. His knuckles tighten against the handle of his hammer. “You came here for me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Toby looks visibly sick at the response. He paces around back and forth before finally stating, “You want me to kill you.”

 

It is not a question.

 

“Someone needs to do it,” Jim says. “If you don’t want to do it, I’m sure one of your subordinates would be willing to—”

 

“No!”

 

The shout startles him. Toby holds his hands out in front of him, staring down in dismay.

 

“Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”

 

Jim nods. “Yes.”

 

“Then you know why I can’t.”

 

Jim blinks. He has betrayed his friend for a witch, killed countless people, done things no human could justify—what worth did he have to Toby outside of death?

 

Killing Jim would starve off Morgana’s forces. If Toby plans it right, he could destroy Morgana before she unleashed her fury on humanity.

 

“You really,” Toby holds his mouth with one hand before hitting his fist against the wall. “No! Absolutely not! Jim, you’re my best friend. Despite everything you’ve done, I,” he pauses, his voice cracking.

 

He draws closer to Jim, his hands pressing down on his shoulders. “I never gave up on you.”

 

Jim looks away; Toby continues.

 

“Do you think I’ve been fighting this war because I wanted to? Do you think I wanted to watch you destroy yourself? Jim, I’ve been fighting this war for you,” he confesses.

 

“Me?” Jim says.

 

Him? Morgana’s murderous right hand? The worst Trollhunter in existence?

 

It is hard to wrap his head around the subject. Emotion wells within his gut. He is unsure of how to process it all. Someone fighting for him? It is such a foreign concept.

 

“You’re my best friend. You…Other than Darci, you’re the only other person I have left.” Toby’s arms circle around his head, one hand in his hair while the other was around his neck. It is soft, warm, and good. “I love you, dude. And it kills me to see you like this. Please, please, don’t kill yourself. We can defeat her together and get Claire back. I know we can…just…let me help you, okay?”

 

And for the first time in a long while, Jim cries.

 

It is an ugly cry. His voice breaks.

 

He buries his face into the other’s shoulder. A hand strokes his hair, not like Morgana who used it as a way to control him, no, no, no, this—

 

It reminds him of his mom. Jim hiccups through his tears.

 

It feels terrible and wonderful at the same time.

 

 

 

 


	11. Twenty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's twenty-six when Morgana is defeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters. 
> 
> Finally done with the story! Will put up epilogue soon enough. Man, I really struggled with this one. I started writing it whilst going through a depressive period and it helped me during it. It was fun playing with present tense words. Big thanks to my friends for helping me with this story. Also big thanks to DaylightEclipsed for letting me write out this idea into a full-fledged story. Thank you for all the lovely comments, kudos, and favorites. You guys are my favorite fandom.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He’s twenty-six when Morgana is defeated.

 

As planned, he goes back to her that day, the sorceress none the wiser. It takes months for them to figure out how to get through her barriers without detection, and several more before they put the plan into action.

 

The hardest part is playing the part of her subdued consort, his body burning with anticipation to finally put their plan into action.

 

It is Strickler who surprises him the most, his knowledge of the black arts vital to returning Claire to her body. Of course, to no one’s surprise, he too is part of the resistance. It explained how Toby and the rest were able to evade Morgana’s reach.

 

Jim cannot lie; it fills him with hope.

 

The day starts out normally, with Morgana braiding his hair and dressing him in a matching black ensemble. It is in this vulnerable moment that the main team charges into the castle.

 

The barriers fall, one by one. She notices too late. In her arrogance, she fails to take into account how large the resistance is in comparison to her own forces.

 

Morgana fights—no, roars against the attackers with a wave of magic he had only seen in battle, but whatever technology the group keeps the sorcery in check, if only just.

 

It is he who strikes the first and final blow, casting the sorceress out of Claire’s body once and for all. Morgana is fierce and beautiful and terrifying and Jim relishes her shock as his dagger strikes true.

 

The next part is more tricky. Strickler’s book only prevents her from lashing out. It is up to Jim to find her through the shadow staff.

 

He takes a deep breath as Strickler chants. He points the staff at the wall and fires off a portal. Immediately, black tendrils reach out to drag him into the darkness, cutting off everyone around him. He last thing he sees it Toby’s terrified face.

 

Cold sinks into his bones. He shivers.

 

Now it is up to him.

 

The first thing he sees is grass. Real grass. Green and vibrant and so unlike the gray world from which he came. His gaze travels upwards.

 

He almost chokes up at the emerging scene. It is a young Claire, the true Claire, exactly like the day he first spoke to her. As he approaches, he notices that he too, is young, young and human and himself and oh god has he missed this. This is his body. It is warm and human and him. Not Morgana’s monster but Barbara’s son. _It is right, right right_ , his mind echoes.

 

But he knows it isn’t real.

 

Her eyes catch his own, a small smile emerging. “Can I help you?”

 

He winces. Morgana’s magic vibrates around them. It is thick here, so close to the real Claire. He must be persistent. He cannot take no for an answer. “I’m here to take you home.”

 

She cocks her head to the side. “But I am home.”

 

“This isn’t real, Claire,” he says. “None of this.”

 

Her brows cross. A troubled frown emerges. “I don’t understand.”

 

How to convince her? Jim bites down on his knuckle, trying to find something between them, something he could use to get through to her.

 

Something they both shared.

 

“O, wilt thou…leave me so unsatisfied?” He quotes. It has been so long, and he probably forgot half of the plot of the play, but the words could still flow through his mouth.

 

Claire pauses, her lips moving silently before she answers, “What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?”

 

Jim smiles.

 

“The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine,” he replies, stepping closer.

 

“I gave thee mine before thou didst request it: And yet I would it were to give again,” Claire says, her eyes no longer so dazed. There is a soul there.

 

He reaches out, offering her his hand.

 

“Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?” He asks.

 

She stares. For a moment, Jim fears it is too late, that she is too far gone, but her hand reaches out, grasping his own. It is warm and soft and everything he remembers and more.

 

“But to be frank, and give it thee again,” Claire says softly. “And yet I wish but for the thing I have: My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.”

 

He pulls her into a firm hug. Even though he knows this isn’t real in the physical sense, he cherishes the action. This is Claire, the real Claire, and he’s never letting go. Not again.

 

“We need to go home,” he whispers.

 

A look of doubt crosses her features. She shakes her head. “I can’t. She’s too powerful,” she stresses. “I tried.”

 

“I believe in you,” he says, kissing her cheek. “We can do this, together. Like we were supposed to.”

 

Her fingers dig into his back. “Stay with me?” She pleads.

 

He leans forward, both their foreheads bumping together. “Always.”

 

It is blurry. He only remembers pieces of the fight, but he suspects Claire remembers more.

 

In his recollection, Morgana is a whirlwind of pain and betrayal and despair. She throws everything she has at them. It is all she could do. She curses and wails but Claire is no longer alone. She has him. She squeezes his hand as she casts the witch out of her body.

 

A small part of him mourns the sorceress. He knows she manipulated him, destroyed him, led him down a path of death he thought he would never escape—but she comforted him, and, somewhere in her twisted deranged mind, truly did love him.

 

But love does not redeem her actions.

 

He falls out of the portal, his back smacking against the floor. He crawls over to Morg—Claire’s body. The dagger is thrust out, magic knitting her skin back together. He is back in his current body, too big and too wrong, but he would rather be a monster than ever spend another second without Claire again.

 

Her eyes open. Chocolate brown stares back at him. The taste of magic has changed, clean and sweet. Toby’s plan worked. Claire is saved.

 

But at what cost?

 

His girlfriend looks frail, her long black locks now completely silver. Black veins travel up her arms like branches of a tree. Magic has damaged her, they know, just as it has mutilated him.

 

The next few days pass within a blink of an eye. Despite Toby’s protests, he’s taken into custody. The cell is cold and small and everything he deserves.

 

But he’s not there now. Still, the chains on his feet are beginning to chaff, he notes. He’s required to be bound and escorted by military personal wherever he goes. He doesn’t mind.

 

What he does mind is when his amulet is stolen by the government, kept under lock and key. He doesn’t know what they want to do with it, but considering the talks he’s heard, he has a pretty good idea.

 

Still, Toby is able to pull a few strings at least. He is released with strict containment in Claire’s hospital wing. It is something he would be forever thankful for.

 

Claire is the one worse off, after all. She clings to her parents, clings to Jim, clings to anyone who will let her. She touches his hands, his face, his horns—no judgment, only love. He savors every moment.

 

They don’t talk about the past, only the future. Claire likes the flowers he brings her every morning. She says she wants to build a garden.

 

They laugh, they cry, it is strange to have her there, really there, after nearly a decade. She asks him if he still wants to be her boyfriend; he cries and answers, yes, of course, forever and always. As long as he is able, he would be hers. It is the least he owes her.

 

He looks up, watching passing guards. One of them flinches at his attention, face white as a sheet. The other pushes his fellow human forward. They continue down the hall. 

 

His gaze returns to its prior position . A soft ache awakens in his chest.  Humans are terrified of him. The staff at the hospital tremble when he comes near. His reputation is legendary. Before, he might have cared. A younger Jim would have tried to make amends in some fashion.

 

Current Jim just wants a snack from the vending machine.

 

He is tempted to shake the money-stealing contraption. Of all the things he thought would have survived the war, Nougat Nummies are not one of them. It is likely several years out of date going by how slow the machine is functioning, but he doesn’t care. He’s hungry.

 

Meat is hard to come by, this soon after the war.

 

A few minutes later, it pops out. Success. He grabs it, chains clicking together as he unwrapped its delicious goodness.

 

He walks back to his seat on the bench. His security detail are on standby at each end of the hallway. A young black woman presents her ID to one of them, entering the closed off area. She sees him and her eyes grow cold.

 

“Jim,” she remarks, and there’s an edge to her voice.

 

“Darci,” he says, patting the area next to him. “Come, sit down. You look like you have something to say.”

 

“I think I’ll stand, thank you.” She tries to appear tall and imposing, but it is impossible with him. He’s already eyelevel with her whilst sitting. Only trolls could stare down at him now.

 

There are more lines around her eyes than he remembers.

 

“You’re right, I do have something to say to you.” She exhales deeply, then states, “The others may have forgiven you, but I haven’t.”

 

“Understandable,” he responds, taking another bite out of his food.

 

Darci turns her head. Under the hospital light, he can see traces of burns alongside her right cheek and neck. He wonders how she got them. He wonders if her family is still alive. He hopes they are.

 

“Toby suffered because of you. Your betrayal hit him the hardest. He still has nightmares from the war. And not just him. People suffered, Jim. You killed people—no, murdered them. You’re a murderer.”

 

“That is true.” He has long come to accept his nature, his wrongs. If sixteen-year-old Jim were here today, he would ram his blade straight through current Jim’s heart. His closet has more skeletons than a cemetery by now.

 

She stomps on the ground, anger rising. “Toby’s Nana died in the floods. Your mom died from the Great Sickness. My dad was killed in the bombings. Everyone we’ve cared about has been hurt in some way. You could have stopped all this.”

 

“That is also true.”

 

“Don’t you feel anything? How can you just sit there and do nothing?” She asks, frustration in her tone. “Cry? Scream? Something! Anything, damn it!”

 

The guards shuffle around, their hands reaching up near their firearms.

 

Jim blinks, once, twice, then stares back down at the floor. “I’m tired, Darci. And I know what I’ve done. There is no excuse.”

 

“They’re talking about executing you, you know.” She says, her eyes growing wetter by the second. “Toby is trying to do everything he can to put an end to it. He’s talking to the tribunal right now.”

 

“He really shouldn’t,” he says. “I’m prepared to accept my punishment.”

 

“You don’t get it, do you?” She laughs, but it is forced. “Your death isn’t going to solve anything, dumbass. You don’t get to crap out on us, after all this. You may be a murderer, you might deserve death a thousand times over, but _Toby_ needs you. _Claire_ needs you. If you’re not going to live for yourself, at least live for them. You _owe_ my husband that much.”

 

Jim’s eyes widen. He sits a little straighter, mouth half-open. “I never thought about it like that.”

 

Darci rolls her eyes, sinking down next to him. Head in hands, she tells him, “You really are a complete idiot, aren’t you?”

 

“So I’m told,” he chuckles.

 

“God, I need a cigarette.” She pulls out a carton and lighter. Fingers trembling, she tries to light the end but continues to fail.

 

Jim puts his hand out. “Allow me.”

 

She gives it to him. In a soft flick of his thumb, he lights it. Darci glances down at the other cigarette and asks, “You need one too? You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

 

“Feels that way,” he says, accepting the gift. Another flick of the lighter and he’s a certified smoker. 

 

He coughs violently after the first puff.

 

“Seriously? This is your first time smoking?”

 

“There weren’t a whole lot of opportunities for me to smoke during the war.” He takes another drag of the nicotine. “But damn, do I wish there had been.”

 

“Cigarettes are super expensive these days. Alcohol too,” she says. “I miss all the terrible things we had to fill out bodies with. I miss daytime television. I even miss reality TV shows, and I hated those.”

 

“I miss The Great British Bake Off,” he commiserates.

 

She snorts, “You would, wouldn’t you.”

 

They smoke the next few minutes in silence. His hearing picks up the pitter-patter of nervous doctors in the hallways adjacent to theirs, their whispers fading in and out. Somewhere in the area, a television is playing a rerun of GunRobot 3. How nostalgic.

 

“I still don’t forgive you,” she reiterates. “I may never. What happened to Mary, what happened to Eli, what happened to Steve, they’re—"

 

“I know.”

 

“Promise me you’ll fight to stay alive,” Darci says. “No matter the government’s verdict.”

 

“You know what they’ll do if I’m allowed to live, Darci.” He takes another long inhale of poison. A moment later, he exhales. “I’ll just be moving from one owner to another.”

 

Darci sighs. “You have a choice. Lay down and die or get up and live.”

 

“And you want me to get up and live.”

 

“Yeah,” she admits, eyes narrowing. “Against my better judgment, but I do.”

 

He nods, “Alright, then. I’ll think about it.”

 

He returns to the hospital room, kissing Claire goodbye before his security came to escort him away.

 

The decision comes in an hour later.

 

 


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Trollhunters or any of its characters. 
> 
> Double update! Finally done! Yessss! Big thanks to everyone. Ya'll are awesome. Look, I actually completed something! Huzzah!

* * *

 

 

 

 

He’s thirty when it hits him.

 

Holy crap he’s _thirty_.

 

Huh. It’s strange to even think he got this far. The thought comes to him while he’s cooking dinner.

 

He wipes his hands with a towel before sprinkling a little more salt over the food to enhance the taste.

 

The meal is a simple one, made from Claire’s garden and an unlucky rabbit that had fallen into one of his traps earlier that morning. He never kills them close to the house, knowing how upset it would make her. Last time she caught him skinning an animal every window in the house shattered. Fun times.

 

So outside it is.

 

He spices it with herbs Claire gave him yesterday. Spring is here and in full swing. He takes a whiff of the basil and smiles.

 

Claire must have noticed his change in mood, her hand running up and down his back. A few years ago, he would have shuddered at the contact, so much like Morgana. Now, it is a normal sensation, one he welcomes every time. She tucks a lose silver bang behind her ear. “Is everything okay? You look distant. Do you need to go outside for a bit?”

 

He leans down and kisses her head. “Just thinking about the past.”

 

She nods, then tries to reach for the plates on the top shelf. Jim beats her to it, grabbing six in one hand and handing them to her. One of the perks of being tall, he thinks. Makes cleaning the house easy as pie. Speaking of pie—

 

He reaches out to pick up the strawberry one from the open window. As delicious as it smells, he knows one bite would send him running to the bathroom.

 

Jim pauses. His eyes drift to the window’s reflection. He’s grown to tolerate the mesh of human and troll in his features now. The form has become his own. In a way, it will always be a prison of sorts, but he deserves it, after all he’s done. His scars are still there, but they have faded, no longer as ghastly. He runs a hand through his hair. It is short, ending at the nap. He never allows it to grow any longer.

 

But, of course, the form came with drawbacks. Everyone and their dog knew the Trollhunter. His face is iconic now, and not in a good way.

 

Claire asks, “Do you need some time alone?”

 

“No, I’m fine, sweetheart,” he says, placing the pie on the kitchen island. “We can’t keep the party waiting now, can we?”

 

The dining room is near full capacity. Darci and Shannon are talking about whose job is the worst, while Claire’s parents and younger brother are laughing at Toby as he makes ridiculous faces. His audience— a wide-eyed two-year-old boy— chirps happily.

 

After helping Claire set out the silverware, Jim squats down to pick up the child, who wiggles and gurgles in response.

 

“What in the _world_ , Tobes?” He laughs. “I’ve never heard that story before.”

 

“My work stories are the stuff of nightmares.” Toby said. “Did I ever tell you about the time someone stole the secretary’s stapler?”

 

“I’m terrified to even ask.”

 

His friend sniffs the air in a dramatic fashion. “Oh, smells like dinner’s ready. Rabbit stew marinated in wine and…” he takes another deep breath, “garnished with chopped basil? Taking a risk there I see, Master Chef Jim.”

 

“I’m impressed.” Jim says.

 

Claire butts in, eyebrows crossed. “I literally told you all that over the phone earlier, TP.” 

 

“Don’t ruin this for me, Claire.”

 

Toby stands, stretching his back. His friend is a tad softer around the middle than he was during the war, but that is to be expected in times of peace. His cushy job at the United Earth Council didn’t hurt either.

 

How ironic, that in Morgana’s conquest of earth she inadvertently unified human and troll against her. Their new world government is functioning well for only being around less than five years. Though he rarely saw his dear troll friends come by he did catch them from time to time on the television, doing speeches about troll-human relations and the like. Blinky makes a good leader, with AAARRRGGHH!!! waiting patiently at his side. He’s proud of them. They would never have the same relationship with Jim, but the trolls always makes sure to come during the holidays to say hello.

 

One troll he did not expect to see so often was Strickler. Though not here tonight, the Changeling usually visited every other week or so, bringing news of things in New Arcadia and the like. Mostly though, Jim liked to think it was because of his son, who has from day one immediately attached himself to the Changeling, dubbing him “Pepaw” the moment he began learning to talk, which only endeared the old man to child all the more.

 

Nomura and NotEnrique vanished after the war from what he heard. Not that he’s seen them since the night he left to find the Morgana-possessed Claire. Part of him wonders if it is because of him, but he banishes the thought. No use dwelling about things you cannot change. Instead, he likes to imagine them sipping margaritas on a beach in the Caribbean. It is a nice dream, especially after the purges.

 

He swallows the bile developing at the back of his throat. Changelings lose the most in the war. There’s so few of them now. Jim wishes he could have done more.

 

But those kinds of things are out of his hands now.

 

“Papa, papa!” His son smacks his chest. “Hungry, hungry.”

 

Jim rests the boy on his hip and tickles his chin. In response, the child shoves one of his fingers into his mouth and chews. Jim winces as tiny tusks pierce his flesh. Though he still appears _mostly_ human, his son has started to show more and more signs of his mixed heritage as time goes on. He can already see the beginnings of horns emerging from his mess of black hair. Just yesterday Jim noticed some of his son’s skin flacking off, blue stone emerging.

 

Damn, they are going to have the worst terrible-twos, aren’t they?

 

“No biting daddy, sweetie.” Claire says, bringing out the first course. Her friends and family oh and ah respectfully. Jim rolls his eyes, but still blushes. 

 

The food is delicious, as to be expected. He does not touch it himself (cooked anything makes him vomit). Mostly, he spends the time watching the group, recording the moment in his mind. To think, fifteen years have passed since he became Trollhunter.

 

His eyes glimpse into the mirror behind them. It’s almost comical, how out of place he looks at the table. He does not mind though. He’s alive and happy and that’s  all that really matters, right?

 

Toby takes him out to the backyard after dessert. His friend whistles at the open night sky. He agrees.

 

“Dude, can you believe how old we are now?” Toby says.

 

“I know, right?” Jim says. “It feels like only yesterday we were just teenagers.”

 

Jim looks at his friend. His mind wanders to his appearance. It bothers him more and more as time passes. While him and Claire still appear to be in their early twenties, Toby and Darci are now approaching middle-aged. He hopes that it is because of how hard the war was on them, and not the alternative.

 

Best not to dwell on such thoughts. He steers his mind to other things. Happy things.

 

“Yeah, time sure flies,” Toby replies, a wistful smile on his lips. “How’s Claire?”

 

“She’s good. She’s taken up painting. Thanks for the oils by the way. She loves them.”

 

Toby folds his arms, the smile disappearing. “Come on, dude. I mean _really_.”

 

Jim sighs.

 

“Better, but some days are worse than others,” he confesses. Her magic doesn’t hurt him, but that doesn’t mean it cannot hurt anyone else. Thankfully, she hasn’t blown up the entire house yet, just parts of it. “She doesn’t have as many panic attacks as before.”

 

“That’s good,” he says, swallowing visibly. “You know, maybe I could get a counselor or something—”

 

“No,” Jim says, shaking his head. “People still recognize her. We can’t risk it.”

 

“What if its online? Someone anonymous.”

 

He pauses, then responds, “Perhaps. I’ll have to speak about it with her later and see what she says.” He switches the subject. “So…I hear you might be getting a promotion from Darci. Earth Council peace coordinator hmm?”

 

“Well, I can’t let you have all the fun.”

 

Jim snorts, “Scaring rebel groups into submission isn’t exactly what I would call ‘fun’, Tobes.”

 

It is a part of his probation. Of course his freedom came with a few strings. He expects no less.  Peace always comes at a price. His eyes flicker to the camera nestled in one of the trees near his home to the one hidden inside fake owl they received as a housewarming gift from his handler. There are more, he knows, but those are the two most obvious ones.

 

Yes.

 

It is a fair trade, all things considered.

 

“Beats sitting behind a desk all day.” Toby says. “And we’ll get to hang out more! Just like the old days.”

 

“True,” he admits. “I do miss talking with others.”

 

His handler and her subordinates were cordial, but standoffish, for good reason. Though the narrative of the Trollhunter has been changed to suit the Council’s needs, there are many who still remember and know of the carnage he caused.

 

“I could take a few days off next week and visit if you’d like,” he suggested.

 

Jim scratches the back of his neck. “You know what I mean, Tobes.”

 

It is their punishment; this gilded cage they call a home. In exchange for their lives, he plays whatever role the Earth Council needs him to be.

 

Be it peace keeper…

 

Or executioner.

 

He does it without question.

 

It is his burden.

 

It is his penitence.

 

It is better than he deserves.

 

“Hey!” Claire yells at them from the door, “Get your butts in here! We’re about to sing Happy Birthday to Junior over here.”

 

“Be right there, Claire,” he calls back.

 

Toby nudges him in the side. “What? Still not celebrating your birthday? No fancy ol’ birthday song for you? I can belch one out if you’d like.”

 

“Thanks, Tobes, but I’ll pass,” he laughs.

 

His eyes flicker over to one of the trees. He waves. Though he cannot see them, he knows that the woods are never empty. Sometimes he leaves out cookies or coffee. They've never touch them, but Jim likes to think it’s the thought that counts. He’s always being watched, should he ever turn against them.

 

He adjusts his turtleneck. Though it covers most of his shock collar, he doesn’t like others looking at it, especially Toby. His fingers itch for the heavy weight of his amulet. He knows it is no use though. The government controls when and where he may transform. The scar around where they tore it from his body aches at the reminder.

 

It doesn’t matter. He has his family and friends to keep him busy.

His life isn’t perfect by any means; Claire and he both have their fair-share of issues. She can’t sleep without the light on and he can’t sleep at all without the assist of a sedative. But they’re living, day-by-day; they keep moving, keep playing with their son, keep doing their hobbies, keep doing everything and anything to keep their heads above water.

 

Because sometimes, that’s the only thing you can do.

 

 

 


End file.
